


and with you, i fall

by passionesque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Banter, Broody! Draco, Canon Divergence, Drama, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Pining, Post HPB AU, Romance, Sexual Tension, Snarky! Draco, Teasing, and eventually she wants to snog him back too, dramione - Freeform, in which hermione is stubborn and draco just wants to kiss her, some slowburn, that’s it, that’s the whole fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionesque/pseuds/passionesque
Summary: With Narcissa Malfoy striking a deal for her family — protection for information, the last thing anyone wants is Draco Malfoy seeking refuge within the heart of the Order.It would’ve been easy, Hermione thinks. So easy for her to hex him back to Voldemort’s clutches for all that he’s said and done, but being the bleeding soft-hearted Gryffindor she is, she doesn't.* * * * *“You should hate me,” he murmurs, flicking his gaze to her from beneath his lashes.She should, Hermione knows this. She really ought to hate him, but the memory of the haunted look in his eyes and the hoarse screams of his nightmares echoes through her mind and eases the storm in her heart.She doesn’t. Shecan’t.“You’re right,” Hermione says soberly. “I should. But I don’t.”Post HBP. Canon-Divergent. HG/DM.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 265
Kudos: 613





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first time writing for the HP fandom, more pointedly, for this pairing and I'm extremely nervous about this but I got tired of agonising over this so here it is. In all honesty, I've actually been reading Dramione fics since 2016 but here am I four years later because this pairing has utterly ruined my sanity. 
> 
> This should have less than 10 chapters and I'll try to update every Monday but we'll see! As always, feedback would mean the world to me and I would love to hear from you. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Sometimes, Hermione wonders if she really is the pathetic reckless bleeding heart that everyone accuses Gryffindors of being. 

She must be, she decides as she watches Malfoy fix his hard icy gaze onto the weathered mahogany table as everyone around them explodes into one shouting mess. He is silent, though, from the way his jaw clenches every few seconds, Hermione can tell he’s positively itching to let loose a barrage of cutting insults. But in his defence, everyone _is_ talking about him as though he isn’t here in the room.

“—He’s Death Eater scum! He and his whole lot should be in Azkaban for—”

“—How can we even trust them like this?! If they’re so easily betraying their current Master, who’s to say they won’t—”

“—You’re not actually serious, Minerva? He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and killed Albus—”

Malfoy, to his credit, remains quiet. However, Hermione doesn’t miss the way his shoulders are hunched into himself. It’s as though he has the weight of the world on his back or how he’s so tightly wound—like a coiled snake, preparing to strike. What’s more, the tired lines of exhaustion on his face and the gauntness of his cheeks speaks volumes of his current state. Her gaze drifts lower, noting the way his clothes hang loosely off his frame, highlighting the stark difference in the bully she knew and the boy he is now.

She tries to recall when exactly was the last time she’s seen him in all of his _proper pureblood pointiness_ but the answer can’t quite come to mind.

But hearing the accusations and insults hurled throughout the room, the walls in her mind compartmentalising Draco Malfoy as her horrid childhood bully starts to crack. It doesn’t matter she loathes him with all of her heart. Because despite all of the disgust and thunderous anger she feels towards him for his role in letting Death Eaters enter Hogwarts and being the catalyst in Dumbledore’s death, she still perceives the smallest, _tiniest_ hint of sympathy for him.

Bleeding soft-hearted Gryffindor indeed.

Of course, it certainly helps that he’s wandless, thanks to Professor McGonagall’s firm conditions. Without adhering to them, neither he nor his parents would be able to seek refuge within the heart of the Order.

Abruptly, a shiver goes down her spine and Hermione realises belatedly that a pair of cold grey eyes are focused on her now.

“What the bloody hell are you looking at, _Granger,”_ he sneers, clearly catching sight of her not so subtle scrutinising. She flushes from the sudden attention, eyes flitting around to the occupants of the room as everyone turns to her.

However, before she can respond, Ron tenses and growls at her side. “Don’t even look at her, Ferret!”

“Oh ho, is the Weasel King finally coming to the rescue, then? Going to save your Gryffindor Princess from the big, bad Death Eater?”

“YOU—”

“Ron!” she hisses and clutches at her best friend's forearm, digging her fingers into the sleeve of his well-worn knitted jumper. “Ignore him, he’s just trying to get a rise out of you!”

“But he said—”

“I know what he said! But he can’t do anything to me!” Hermione interjects a tad exasperatedly. “He’s not even allowed the use of his wand. And his parents are our leverage over him, hence him staying here and vice versa. Isn’t that so, _Malfoy?”_ She directs the last part to the blond with a taunting arch of her eyebrows.

Malfoy’s eyes turn even colder, his face flushing with a rare display of fury before he presses his lips into a thin line and audibly grinds his teeth. Nonetheless, he becomes taciturn, his harsh angular features smoothening into a well-practised blank canvas except for his murderous gaze.

“Wand or not,” someone in the back of the room begins hotly. “He still killed Albus!”

“Draco did not kill Dumbledore. Albus was already dying,” Remus Lupin defended, staring sternly at the discontented group of senior Order members. “Severus showed us—”

The room erupts into another cacophony of shouts and disagreements and Hermione wonders what Harry will say about the sudden turn of events. Surely Snape being a double agent and the Malfoys seeking asylum would be the most shocking thing for him to know when he joined them later this month. 

It had been for her.

Just this morning, she’d descended the stairs in Grimmauld Place, intending to seek out Remus for help in decoding some runes when she’d seen that head of platinum blond hair and familiar sneer. Crimson red had clouded her vision and it’d only been Remus’ fast _Expelliarmus_ that prevented Malfoy from getting hexed within an inch of his life.

There, Hermione had been informed of how the Malfoys were now turncoats and would be giving vital information in exchange for protection. Unknown to everyone, Narcissa Malfoy had been secretly keeping in touch with her disowned sister, Andromeda Tonks. And it’d been the latter who’d reached out to get the former’s family to safety. If that wasn’t hard enough to digest, it would be the actual revelation of Dumbledore’s self-engineered death and how Severus Snape was playing sides the entire time. 

She would’ve questioned the state of both Professor McGonagall and Lupin’s mind but the entire tale had simply been too fantastical to be fabricated. In the end, it’d been McGonagall’s curt but firm assurances that no, she wasn’t under the _Imperius_ and yes, she was definitely of sound mind that Hermione held her tongue and sat down to listen, albeit reluctantly.

However, the same can’t be said the same for Ron, who is probably the most vocal against the Malfoys’ supposed change in views. Even now, her best friend is red in the face as he gestures wildly towards their childhood enemy. Occasionally, she has to jerk away when a hand or an elbow comes too close to her face.

“Mr Weasley,” Professor McGonagall says shortly, her Scottish accent becoming more pronounced as she stares the redhead down. “The Malfoys have taken Veritaserum and are indeed sincere in aiding us.”

“Yeah, but who's to say they won’t be doubling back to their rotten lot should things go sour for us here?” Ron argues, slamming a fist onto the table, causing the chinaware to rattle. 

Hermione eyes him warily, feeling something like apprehension and dread bloom in her chest. She may not believe in things like divination or fate, but she swears on her wand she can see herself being the _only_ thing separating Malfoy and her best friends from pummeling each other senselessly into the ground. It’d been that way most of their years at Hogwarts and she doubts things will change now.

It’s only been approximately thirty minutes since the meeting had begun but to Hermione, it feels like an eternity and a day had just gone by. Already, she feels the leaden ball of anxiety in her gut become heavier and she fights the urge to chew her lower lip or fidget in her seat. 

As much as she resents the fact that Malfoy is to live here and not with his parents with Andromeda, she accepts it grimly. Having some intel on Voldemort is certainly better than having none at all—even if the Malfoys are to be their informants. She wrinkles her nose at that thought.

She may not know the elder Malfoys well, but she knows she doesn’t think much of them.

The screeching sound of a chair being dragged forcibly slices through the room, effectively snatching the attention of everyone while ceasing all conversation. Hermione’s gaze follows the blond as he stalks out of the kitchen in a blur of black and silver, his thundering footsteps only pausing at the grating croak of an ageing house-elf from the hallway.

_“Oh, young Master Malfoy, Kreacher is most honoured and pleased to be serving the future Master of the Most Great House of Malfoy—”_

A violent slam of the door resounds and everything goes silent.

“Well, I believe that settles things.” McGonagall peers down at everyone through the small thin-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. “If there are any further questions…take it up with Andromeda or Severus himself.”

* * * * *

“To think that Albus would send you three to do all of... _this_ without anyone being the wiser! Well!” Molly Weasley sniffs and shakes her head indignantly, hands on her hips. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but clearly, it just shows what _he_ knows about being a parent! Nothing, that’s what! Absolutely nothing!”

Opposite her, Ron rolls his eyes and Hermione stifles a grin at the way he accurately mouths some of his mother’s diatribe word for word. 

“As if I will allow the three of you to...to gallivant around the country without anyone being the wiser!”

Hermione says nothing and lets Molly continue ranting as she bustles around the kitchen with familiarity and ease. Idly fingering the cover of some ancient dark arts book, courtesy of the Black Library, she smiles fondly as the Weasley matriarch sets another plate of freshly baked apple pie down on the table.

As much as the adults had been appalled at Dumbledore’s plan for the three of them to go Horcrux hunting on their own, Hermione understands the logic about the much-needed secrecy. But admittedly, she’s more than relieved about not having to bear this burden alone.

“Hey, ‘Mione?”

She stills and pauses, her stomach tightening uncomfortably at Ron’s hesitant and yet warm tone. It doesn’t take a genius to know where this is heading. So far, Hermione had been immensely lucky in avoiding being alone with her best friend. But now, it seems her luck has run out as Molly is nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah?” 

Silently, Hermione begs any listening deity for divine intervention. Heck, she’ll even settle for Salazar Slytherin himself from beyond the veil.

“I was thinking, as in...Well, you know, we could head out—”

As if on cue, Malfoy steps into the kitchen. 

The temperature drops and she straightens in her chair, immediately slamming her book shut and covering the faded gold title with her palms. There isn’t any need in letting the blond know what they’ve all been up to.

“Feel free to ignore me, Weaselbee and continue your pathetic attempts in asking your bushy-haired girlfriend out.” Malfoy’s disdainful sneer is audible in his words as he skirts along the perimeter of the kitchen—as far away as possible from them—to pour himself a mug of tea.

The vindictive side of her absolutely enjoys the way Malfoy, the poster boy for all things Pureblood, has to make his cup of Earl Grey the Muggle way. She bites the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from giving a pointed remark about it and succeeds.

Ron, on the other hand, is entirely predictable. “Mind your sodding business, Ferret!” he raises his voice and throws a scathing look at the blond. “Why don’t _you_ go back to whatever hole Voldemort wants you to be in?”

Hermione winces at the absence of a rebuttal that she is certainly _no one’s_ girlfriend, most of all, Ron’s. Then again, she distantly wonders why she even cares what Malfoy thinks about them. 

Malfoy smirks derogatorily, his lean form turning to face them as he holds the slightly chipped mug in his pale hand. “Is that the only insult that you can even think of? But then again, I’m surprised you could even tie your laces together without anyone helping.”

“SHUT IT, YOU MISERABLE SOD!” 

Grey eyes twinkle with absolute glee and Malfoy cocks his head, a taunting grin appearing on his face as he regards them. “Nice word you used. But can you spell it? If you can’t, it goes like this: M-I-S-E-R-A-”

With an enraged howl, Ron staggers to his feet, gangly limbs knocking into the table as he whips out his wand—

“Ron! No!” Rapidly, she snatches it from his outstretched hand. “You can’t! He’s not armed!”

“So what?!” he explodes, his face turning a brilliant shade of red. “You can’t tell me the fucking git doesn’t deserve it!”

“That doesn’t mean we stoop to his level!” she retorts hotly, not liking how Ron was practically shouting down at her. Hermione meets his glare evenly and rises to her feet as well. 

“That’s what all Weasleys do, Granger. They stoop to pick up the loose knuts and sickles others drop on the floor.”

“Malfoy, will you just bloody _shut your trap!”_ she barks, not even bothering to look at him. “Ron, you know you’ll get in trouble—”

 _Pop!_

Hermione stops herself as Kreacher appears and trudges further into the kitchen, a bitter expression on his face. As much as she dislikes Kreacher’s ill-mannered ways, Hermione cannot deny how the ageing house-elf adores the Malfoy heir. Upon catching sight of the blond, Kreacher’s eyes light up and his form practically quivers.

“Young Master Malfoy!” he croaks and bows reverently till the tips of his ears touch the floor. “Kreacher is most honoured to be at the service of the future heir of the—”

She sneaks a glance in Malfoy’s direction. The blond is staring at the house-elf with a grimace on his features as though he can’t quite decide how to react to the long-winded and repetitive spiel.

“If it is young Master Malfoy’s desire, Kreacher shall get rid of all the Mudbloods and blood traitors in Mistress Walburga’s home for the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black—”

“SHUT UP, YOU AWFUL LITTLE—”

“Ronald!” she snaps heatedly and glares. “Leave Kreacher alone!”

Ron shoots her a resentful glower, blue eyes looming with betrayal. “Exactly whose side are you on, Hermione?” 

Her jaw drops. “Who said anything about sides?”

The redhead’s shoulders slump and his hands curls into fists at his side. Without a word, he wrenches his wand back and stomps out of the room, leaving her gaping at his retreating form.

Malfoy scoffs, the sound grabbing her attention and Hermione sees him make a rude gesture towards the doorway where Ron had just left. “At least the war didn’t change some things. Least of all, Weasel’s temper.”

“Shut it, you foul git!” she hisses and this time, she points her wand in his direction, satisfaction filling her at the way Malfoy jerks at the action. “Have you forgotten that you’re here because _we_ allowed it? In the grand scheme of things, you’re merely a forgotten _and_ unimportant pawn on the chessboard!” 

His jaw clenches, the corner of his eyes narrowing dangerously and Hermione tenses and waits for the long string of insults that start with how her hair is a big nest on her head, how she’s such a prissy know-it-all horror and more commonly, how she, a filthy mudblood should know her place for speaking in such a manner to him, the paragon of all Purebloods, also known as ‘her betters’. 

But nothing comes. 

Malfoy straightens and lifts his chin in a defiant yet elegant manner. The full-black ensemble he’s taken to wearing since the start of their sixth year falls down his form in wrinkled lines as he rests against a counter, highlighting his pale countenance. With the dim lighting casting shadows against the angular planes of his face and how the silver blond strands of his hair fall into his eyes, Malfoy fully reminds her of the vampires in the Muggle films she’d seen growing up. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Hermione demands, jamming the tip of her wand closer to his throat. She fully expects him to erupt with disparaging remarks about her heritage any moment now. The boy he’d been in their younger years would never miss a chance to wreck her self-esteem and reduce her to angry tears.

Instead, Malfoy simply bats her wand away as though it’s a bothersome fly before glowering intensely. “Get your wand out of my face, Granger!” His glare suddenly morphs into a dark leer, hooded eyes running down her length. “Though I think you should be the one _begging_ for my wand.”

It takes a moment for the innuendo to sink in.

When it does, her cheeks flush hotly as she chokes on air.

 _“W-Wh-What?!”_ Hermione sputters frantically and stumbles back, hastily putting the chair as a barrier between them. She absolutely can not believe her ears. “I certainly would not!” she screeches hysterically. 

Malfoy laughs in that deriding way of his and Hermione presses her mouth into a thin line and crosses her arms over her chest. She can’t believe she has allowed Malfoy to get under her skin this easily. Hadn’t she been nagging at Ron about this just minutes ago?

“Ronald—” Molly calls as she enters the room, holding a bundle of packages. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing!” She almost shouts, willing the redness in her cheeks to go _away_.

Snapping her gaze towards Malfoy, she notes the disinterested look on his face as he stares blankly at both of them. Typically, it isn’t long before his lips curl and he mutters something rude under his breath and stalks out. 

“It’s such a shame,” Molly murmurs once a door on the third-floor slams shut. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

The Weasley matriarch looks up. “Oh, I was referring to the Malfoy boy, Draco, is it?”

Hermione nods awkwardly and her overactive brain wonders if Molly had overhead anything—particularly, the lewd remark. Merlin only knows what Molly can say about _that_ when Hermione herself doesn’t. “What about him?"

Molly shakes her head and sighs. “I don’t particularly like the Malfoys, but Draco, he’s just a boy. Of course, it doesn’t excuse the things he’s done.” She sets her things down. “But to think that my Ronald could have been in his shoes, well. I can’t blame Narcissa Malfoy for turning to us, their supposed enemies to save her only son from that maniac.”

With that, Molly leaves, humming something under her breath as if she hadn’t turned everything that made sense upside down. 

Finally alone, Hermione stares at the doorway, mouth agape as those innocuous words ring through the air on repeat. Squeezing her eyes shut, she sags against the wall as the earth shifts beneath her feet.

_He’s just a boy._

* * * * *

Hermione smooths the faded crumpled pages of Beedle the Bard and glances up at Harry. “Are you sure this is all that Dumbledore has given us in his will? A storybook, a snitch and a deluminator?”

“There’s the Sword of Gryffindor too,” Ron offers, a scowl permeating his features. “But Scrimgeour says it wasn’t Dumbledore’s to give, says that it’s a historical artefact.”

“Well, even so,” she gestures to the three items before them. “This is it? But how are they supposed to help?”

“I don’t know. But surely it has to mean something.” Harry scrubs at his eyes and picks up the tiny golden ball. “It has to help us somehow. I don’t believe Dumbledore would just give us things like this without a proper agenda.”

“Mate, you ought to sleep,” Ron points out not too gently, highlighting Harry’s reddened eyes and grave countenance.

“I can’t! Not when You-Know-Who is out there! The sooner we figure this out, the faster we can take him down!” 

“Harry, the Ministry’s all but fallen. Do you really think we can do anything now when…”

“I have to try, Ron! I can’t just—”

Hermione flicks through the old yellowed pages, stopping at _The Tale of the Three Brothers._ However, a flash of silver from the corner of her eyes causes her to stiffen, abandoning her plans for searching the book for hidden clues and meanings.

Beside her, Harry and Ron fall silent and together they watch as Malfoy ambles down the stairs with a mug in his hand.

It has now been a week marking the Slytherin’s arrival.

Unlike what she’d previously thought and feared, Harry hadn’t joined in the antagonising of the blond like Ron so often did. In fact, he’d made it a point to ignore him whenever Malfoy made a rare appearance, emerging from the room he’d recently taken to holding up in. If it weren’t for Kreacher, Hermione is fully certain the pureblood would be starving up there.

Malfoy skulks down the side of the drawing-room without sparing them a single glance or an insult. From the hallway, Walburga Black’s curtained portrait starts screeching muffled derogatory words and slander about how a Malfoy has started to sully themself with blood traitors and mudbloods.

It is only when the reluctant turncoat returns up the stairs and the sound of his door being slammed shut that the three of them relax. 

“Fucking git thinks he’s the king of the castle, doesn’t he?” Ron mutters under his breath, clenching his fists.

“Just leave it, Ron.”

Hermione’s mouth closes with an audible click when she realises it is Harry who has spoken.

“But Harry look—”

“Come on, Ron, we should turn in now seeing that we’ll have to be up early tomorrow,” her bespectacled friend says cajolingly and yet firmly before turning to her. “What about you, Hermione?”

“Um,” she glances down at the book, “I might just stay up a little while longer. I want to see if maybe Dumbledore has left some hidden messages or clues in the pages.” 

Harry nods, smiling at her. “I hope there is. If anyone is to find things like that, it’ll be you. Night.”

She watches fondly and yet a tad indignantly as Harry is trailed by Ron moaning about how they can’t leave her there alone in the drawing-room, not when Malfoy is around where he could potentially harm her. Nevermind the fact the blond ferret doesn't have access to his wand or how the newly-set wards in Grimmauld Place restrict anything Dark or most importantly, how Hermione knows she’s more capable in magic than Malfoy from her training with Remus and Tonks in both defensive and offensive spells. She appreciates the concern but it really isn’t warranted.

Settling back into the velvet-lined armchair, she starts to skim through the book, eyes tiredly searching for anything that could help in their cause. Once or twice, Hermione thought she’d managed to find something and had spent extra time being led to nowhere. Finally, she heads back to the tale about the Peverell brothers and their various encounters with Death. 

With a muted sigh, she flips the book back to the front page. Her eyes shift upwards, taking note of a drawn triangular symbol at the top with a circle and a line struck through it. She frowns, fingers tracing the vaguely familiar insignia and the back of her head begins to throb. Taking that as a sign to stop, Hermione heaves out a sigh and runs her fingers through her hair, wincing whenever they meet a gnarled knot. 

Gathering her things, she trudges up the stairs, stretching out her tense muscles and kinked joints when she hears it.

Screams.

Terror-inducing screams and begging.

Her feet stop and she turns towards the door at the far end of the third floor. Another howl sounds and this time, it sends chills down her spine and her stomach drops. Hermione knows it’s Malfoy and his daily nightmares but either Remus or Kingsley must have helped to silence the room because she’d never known it’s been this bad _and_ loud.

A distinct cry has her moving towards Malfoy’s room. It’s just her luck that her room is on the same floor as his, much to Ron’s displeasure. When she’s a few feet away from Malfoy’s door, she pauses and strains her ears against the wall; the cries have stopped. 

Biting her lip, Hermione hesitates. Will she be crossing a line in this attempt to check on his well being and to give him some Dreamless Sleep? Surely it would be better for both their sakes if she continued back to her room and did nothing. It certainly will spare Malfoy’s pride in getting help from a mudblood, while her already conflicting views on him wouldn’t be further tipped out of balance. And yet… Hermione closes her eyes as Molly’s words echo through her mind once more.

_He’s just a boy._

Hermione doesn’t want to think what a boy at sixteen could have seen and done to experience such horrific sounding nightmares. Or the guttural howls and begging. She recalls what Harry has said about the incident with Malfoy in the girls’ bathroom and that fateful night on the Astronomy Tower. He’d been forced to, Harry had said solemnly, twisting the handle of his wand, Malfoy had claimed that Voldemort would have murdered his mother should he fail in killing Dumbledore.

An added muffled heart-wrenching sob reaches her ears and her mind is made up.

“Malfoy?” she whispers, stepping closer to lay a palm on the wooden surface of the door. “Can you hear me?” Pressing her ear closer, all she hears are shuffling noises and muted mumbling. 

Just when she thinks he intends to ignore her, the door abruptly swings open and she finds herself stumbling forward—right into Malfoy himself. 

“Granger?” he croaks, swiping at his eyes blearily.

“Malfoy!” she squeaks and falters back, noting his state of dress, or lack of it. Malfoy is shirtless, she realises with something akin to horror and embarrassment. The dark navy pants he has on are slung low on his hips and the absence of his shirt has her tongue-tied. Distantly, she notes that he isn’t as gaunt and thin as he’d been when he’d arrived. His chest is more filled out and defined, she observes distractedly and guesses that the change is due to Molly’s hearty cooking. With his dishevelled hair sticking up in all directions and red-rimmed eyes accompanied with purple bags below, Hermione can’t even recall when the Malfoy heir had looked this unkempt in the company of others.

Recognition hits and his eyes widen as a faint hint of pink suffuses his cheeks. It isn’t long before his carefully-constructed walls fall into place and he snarls agitatedly, a hand braced on either side of his doorway. “What the fuck do you want?”

She swallows and fidgets in her spot, forcing her eyes to remain on his face. “I, um...your nightmares. I didn’t know—”

“What? Here to make fun of me? Or are you here so you can run to Potty and Weasel and tell them I’m having nightmares like a fucking kid?”

Bristling at his mocking tone, she summons her famed Gryffindor courage and glares up. “No, you fucking prat! I was just—I heard you and I just wanted to make sure you’re fine! That’s all!”

Malfoy looks at her for a moment, dark grey eyes lingering on her features and Hermione’s cheeks warm from their intensity.

“I don’t want your sodding pity,” he finally sneers and pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Mind your fucking business, Granger! I don’t need your pissing know-it-all attitude!” With that, he pushes her out of the way before closing the door with a violent swing and a deafening crack. 

Mouth agape, Hermione stares at the closed door and seethes inwardly. In the end, she doesn’t leave him the potion and stalks back to her room, but not before throwing a silencing charm at his door with a quick flick of her wand.

* * * * *

“They’ll be fine, Hermione,” Remus says, stirring his mug of hot chocolate. “We’ve done our research and if the slightest thing doesn’t match up to what we’ve prepared for, the boys know they are to abort the mission.”

“Yes, but what if they need me?” Hermione chews her lower lip. “Or what if they get hurt and they’re all alone and there’s—”

“They’ll be fine,” the werewolf reassures her kindly. “Tonks will be there and she’ll keep the boys in line from doing anything too risky.” He gives her a knowing look and the dig about Harry’s recklessness does conjure a small grin on her face. “Now, you think that You-Know-Who has six Horcruxes and that some are objects relating to the Four Founders?”

She nods, fingers clutching at her methodically organised notes. “Yes, there was the diary in our Second year. Harry destroyed it. There was a ring, which....” she trails off and licks her lips, “Which Dumbledore dealt with and I’m pretty certain Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup is one of them. And of course, Slytherin’s locket has to be it considering Voldemort being his heir—”

A bloodcurdling scream pierces through the house. 

Hermione’s head snaps up and her gaze locks with Remus. Promptly, both of them seem to reach an unspoken understanding and in sync, they barrel up the stairs, feet pounding noisily on the old wooden stairs. Bursting into Malfoy’s room, Hermione gawks at the sight of the blond on his knees, clutching his left forearm in a vice-like grip as he sobs, his form wracking and twisting before he finally gives in and curls into himself. 

“Draco! What’s wrong?” Remus demands, moving to the boy’s side urgently. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s happening!”

“It’s the mark!” Malfoy manages to gasp out amidst his shallow pants. He looks up at them through his sweat-matted hair and Hermione doesn't miss how his eyes are glassy from unshed tears. “Please!”

Remus lets out a series of swear words she’s never heard before and turns to her. “Hermione, hold his arm up for me,” he instructs and rolls Malfoy’s sleeves up before gathering his wand.

She does, her hands grasping his bicep and wrist firmly, wincing when she feels how cold and clammy the Slytherin is to the touch. At her side, Malfoy squirms, body jerking as he tries to alleviate the pain to no avail. “It hurts!” he moans, his face screwing up into a grimace as more tears leak from his eyes. “P-please,” he begs. “Make it stop!”

Her heart clenches uncomfortably at this display of weakness and rawness from him. Hastily, Hermione shifts her eyes to the ugly stain in front of her. She’s never seen the Dark mark this close before. The past weeks, Malfoy has kept it covered by wearing shirts with long sleeves, but now, with its stark lines on his pale forearm, she sees it for all of its grotesque glory. 

The muted green and grey ink swirl violently on his skin and the serpent near his wrist writhes tauntingly as though it is pleased with the pain inflicted on its wearer for not answering its Master’s calls. It is hideous, both in looks and for everything it stands.

And she knows no matter how awful and hateful Draco Malfoy is, he couldn’t have taken _this_ willingly.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, my dear girl,” Remus glances at her for a moment. “Just try to keep him quiet and his arm still.” With that, he begins a sequence of complicated spells and precise movements with his wand. With Malfoy’s occasional jolts and weak tugging, she manages to adhere to Remus’ instructions. Soon enough, the piteous weeping has stopped but the blond’s shivering and small whimpers continue. 

“Did it work?” she asks as Malfoy twitches beside her. 

“Yes.” Remus exhales slowly and leans back from his crouched position. “This is… the nastier side of magic,” he answers ruefully and gazes down at the blond. “I expect Lord Voldemort has just discovered the Malfoys’ treachery.”

Slowly, Hermione releases Malfoy’s arm and sets it gently at his side. “Can he still inflict that sort of pain on him?”

Remus looks grave. “Unfortunately, yes. Magic like this is tied to the person’s magical core and it can’t be banished so easily. Which reminds me,” he rises, looking drained and haggard, “I ought to check on Lucius. No doubt he’s probably experiencing the same affliction.”

“Wait!” 

The former DADA teacher raises his brows and Hermione quickly gets to her feet and fidgets. “What, um. What do I do for…” she trails off and gestures haplessly at the slumped figure on the ground. “What if the pain comes back again?”

“Right now, just make sure he’s comfortable and hydrated. There’s a calming paste made by Severus in the common toilet on the second floor. Apply it on his arm liberally and if the mark does act up again, floo me.” Remus offers her a small smile before leaving. 

And just like that, she’s alone with Malfoy.

Right, she could do this. 

Hermione straightens and gathers her dark honey-coloured curls into an unruly bun on her head and tucks her wand through the mess. 

“Malfoy?” she calls, gingerly tapping the blond on the shoulder. 

He doesn’t respond.

“Malfoy, you have to get up,” she tries again, prodding him with a firmer touch. “Malfoy!”

He stirs and simply rolls to his back, his wand arm clutching his other wrist protectively and a touch defensively. 

Hermione’s brows knot and she gently shakes his shoulder again. “Draco?”

That garners his attention and his closed eyes gradually flutter open. “Granger, that you?” he slurs, staring hazily up at her. 

“Yeah,” she says, unable to decide if she’s perturbed by this situation she’s in _or_ that she’d used his first name and hadn’t been chewed out or hexed for it. “Get up, you have to get in bed,” she orders firmly and begins to tug him up. 

Malfoy winces and clumsily gets to his feet, reminding her of a newborn foal trying to find balance. Without warning, he stumbles over his feet, veering into her and with a startled squeak, she grabs his shoulders, narrowly preventing them from crashing back to the ground. 

“Malfoy!” she gasps from the sudden weight of his heavy frame leaning onto her. He groans, shielding his left arm as she slides hers around his waist, guiding them with shuffling steps to the single-sized bed at the corner.

Finally depositing her hefty companion to the mattress, she takes a step back and puffs out a breath. A brown ringlet falls into her face and she quickly tucks it behind her ear. Summoning the calming paste and a glass of water, she settles at her quasi patient’s side and takes his arm. 

“What’re you doin’?”

“Snape has some paste that will soothe your skin.”

Fingers hesitatingly briefly, she gathers a generous amount of the pale substance and applies it carefully on the inflamed area. The mark looks angry now, the skull and serpent seemed to glare murderously at her for touching one of their own. Still, Hermione carries out her task clinically, ignoring the warmth that lies beneath her fingertips.

Undoubtedly, Hermione is fully aware that things have further changed between them. After seeing him writhe about helplessly, tears rolling down his cheeks, she knows she can never put him back into the same box she’s always put him into. Before the war, she’s always labelled him as the hateful bigot and after Dumbledore’s death, he was simply the Death Eater who’d kickstarted the Second Wizarding War. But now… No longer can she put him in those two categories. 

And that leaves her with a conundrum; where exactly does he stand in her mind?

“Malfoy.” She pauses and snatches a glance at the blond.

He grunts, staring pointedly at the wall.

She turns to him and shifts on her feet. The question that has always lingered at the forefront of her mind since his arrival springs to her lips. “Why don’t you call me a Mudblood anymore?”

Imperceptibly, Malfoy stiffens and his jaw clenches.

Hermione waits but other than the occasional cautious movements which rustle his sheets, he is silent. Her shoulder slump. It’d been foolish to think that she could get such an answer from him. With her wary study of Malfoy, she has forgotten it was Narcissa Malfoy that had bargained with the Order and not once had they mentioned their change in views.

But yet… Hermione admits to being more than surprised that Malfoy hasn’t yet lashed out at her like a wounded animal for seeing him in such a deplorable state.

Baby steps, she thinks a little somberly and a tad wryly. She heads to the doorway but a hoarse voice causes her to falter mid-step.

“Because I don’t know if I believe in that anymore.” 

Malfoy’s voice is quiet but with how they are completely alone, there is no mistaking the words he’d uttered.

With his back facing her, Hermione stares at his curled figure and pushes that odd surge of emotion that swells up within her chest. She doesn’t know how to respond to that revelation. So, she chooses the coward’s way out and simply closes the door behind her.

* * * * *

Angry haughty steps descend the stairs, highlighting their owner’s disposition.

“Granger!”

Hermione exhales and quickly shoves her Horcrux notes away, covering them with a heavy tome discussing Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration in more detail. 

“What is it now, Malfoy?” she calls out just as the pale git enters the library and scowls menacingly at her. She notes that his Dark Mark is fully covered once more.

With Harry and Ron and most of the occupants of Grimmauld Place gone for the day, she figures it’s about time Malfoy hunts her down for some human interaction. They’d not spoken since three days ago where she’d tended to him and he’d caused the earth to come to a standstill with his uttered confession. Malfoy has been avoiding her, which is understandable considering she still doesn’t know what to say to him.

“What the fuck are these?” he demands, shoving a couple of vials filled with purple liquid into her face.

“Dreamless Sleep,” she answers slowly, meeting his slitted gaze.

 _“I know that,_ ” he snarls, grey eyes flashing. “I got better marks in Potions than you ever did!”

“Yes, and?”

He makes a frustrated sound, something that is a cross between a hiss and a groan. “Why?!”

“Why what?”

 _“Why?”_ he practically sputters and narrows his eyes dangerously, setting down the tiny vials on the table in front of her. “Why are you giving them to me? And don’t you deny it. For Salazar’s sake, you’re a fucking shitty liar.”

Hermione arches a brow, inwardly affronted by that remark. “Maybe I don’t want to hear you scream and wail about when your nightmares start. Maybe I’m just being a considerate housemate.”

Malfoy scoffs and he runs his hand through his hair, making the silvery strands stick up messily. “That’s _bull!”_ He growls and leans down so that their gazes are level. “I told you that you Gryffindorks can never lie to save your own skin! But if that’s the angle you want to play, fine! Instead of giving me these,” he gestures wildly to the potions, “Why didn’t you simply silence your room?” he sneers, mouth twisting as he leans down at her. “Or are you not the _brightest witch of your age?”_

She purses her lips and glowers up at him. “Fine!” she snaps heatedly. “Your nightmares sounded terrible… inhumane! I just wanted to… to…. ” 

“Wanted what?” he asks scornfully. “Wanted to help me?” 

The incredulity and mocking tone of his voice grates on her every nerve and Hermione jerks to her feet. She knows where this sudden burst of anger has come from. Draco Malfoy’s incalculable pride had taken an inordinate number of hits from her that day. And now, he’s seeking an outlet to repair the dents that is his arrogant and infallible facade.

Nevermind the old book or her notes that she tosses to the side table, she’s _incensed._ “Yes!” she shouts, jabbing her index finger into the soft cashmere of his jumper. “Is it so bad to accept help from someone? Is your pride that important to you when your—”

“The thing is, Granger, I. Don’t. Want. Your. Pity!” he interrupts fiercely, slapping her hand away and glaring down at her.

“It is _not_ pity!” She screeches and resists stomping her foot like an errant child. “You and I are just children and none of us should...should ever have nightmares like the ones you experience every single night! I don’t know what you went through but—”

“But _what?_ ” 

Malfoy’s voice has gone ice cold, the grey in his eyes resembling burnt steel and his face is carved marble. The black clothes he wears makes him seem more foreboding than usual. Even his posture screams ‘danger’ in red bold letters—much like the ones declaring the return of the heir of Slytherin in Second Year.

Hermione licks her lower lip. “But no one, not even _you_ deserve anything Voldemort has thrown at you,” she finishes softly. 

His jaw shifts and she hears that awful grinding sound his teeth produce that bugs the dentists’ daughter in her. “What do _you_ know about anything that I deserve?”

“I—”

“Have you forgotten that I’m the youngest Death Eater in history?” He begins, closing the gap between them.

She presses her lips into a thin line, not tearing her gaze from his.

“Or have you also forgotten that I’m the one that allowed multiple hostile persons to enter Hogwarts—a school for children—and such persons included a feral werewolf and a sadistic witch who did torture a fellow student’s parents into insanity?” Malfoy’s tone lowers, becoming serpentlike as he speaks into her ear. “Did you even know that I willingly took the Mark that summer?”

No, she had not known that. But she will not allow Draco Malfoy to intimidate her.

“What does that make you feel?” he purrs darkly, hands clasped behind his back in a deceptively benign fashion. “That I volunteered to be in the Dark Lord’s service, to help him in his cause in overthrowing the Ministry?”

Her spine straightens and she doesn’t need to be a Legilimens to know he is simply lashing out because his world has turned on its axis and he too, doesn’t know how to navigate this strange new reality. Just like her. Though, with less yelling and more watchful gazes on her part.

“You don’t fool me,” she says, angling her body towards him. “And you certainly don’t scare me.”

“I should.”

Hermione makes an indignant sound. “You know,” she pauses, “In our Sixth Year, Harry was utterly sure that you got marked. He was obsessed with trying to find proof that you’ve become a Death Eater. He was so certain you’ve been given a task by You-Know-Who to carry out that he even asked Dobby and Kreacher to trail you.”

“Your point?”

“I didn’t believe him.” She observes the way he stiffens and how the muscles in his cheeks twitch. “I tried to tell him that you were just your miserable loathsome self despite seeing you and your mother at Borgin and Burkes before the term started.”

His hands tremble at his sides, the flash of light reflected from his silver signet ring draws her attention and she exhales. “Of course, it turns out Harry was right in the end.”

“How exactly does it feel to be wrong for once in your swotty know-it-all life?”

She shakes her head and examines him ruefully. “I’m just sorry I was wrong about you. You were mean, an awful bully that sneered down at everyone you thought lower than you. But you weren’t evil. Not like _them._ ”

Malfoy staggers back two steps as though she has socked him in the face as she’d done in their Third Year. His face is withdrawn, ashen even, replacing the cocky sneer and false bravado he’d adopted as her words brutally slam into him like a bludger. 

He looks lost, she realises with a start.

“You should hate me,” he murmurs, flicking his gaze to her from beneath his lashes.

She should, Hermione knows this. She really ought to hate him for everything that he’s said and done but the memory of the haunted look in his eyes and the hoarse screams of his nightmares echoes through her mind and eases the storm in her heart.

She doesn’t. She _can’t._

“You’re right,” Hermione says soberly and gathers her things. “I should. But I don’t.”

With one last glance at his shell-shocked figure, she leaves the room, ever aware of his gaze searing into her back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the many email notification alerts about this being updated! I was having issues with publishing it hours ago and I gave up and deleted the two versions. But here it finally is, enjoy!

Screwing up her nose at the barely legible contents of her book, Hermione grits her teeth in frustration. As far she knows, Runes has always been one of her best subjects in Hogwarts. Somehow, the topic matter has always come easy for her and she never has any difficulty in translating the ancient symbols. 

Until now.

Ever since she’d received the worn copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ she’d stared and agonised at the tiny drawn symbol for ages. From the niggling at the back of her skull, Hermione knows it _has_ to mean something. But even with the aid of the numerous ancient tomes in the Black Library, not a single book could tell her what it meant. Not even _Spellman's Syllabary._

“Godric, help me,” she mutters under her breath, squinting at the text and twisting her fingers into her hair in deep-seated frustration. 

“Calling on your gaudy Founder isn’t going to help you with whatever you’re doing, Granger.”

She groans and glowers at the pale blond slinking in. She is certainly in no mood for Malfoy today. Or ever.

It’s just her luck that everyone is out and of course, that means Malfoy is free to prowl around Grimmauld Place. Hermione figures bothering her is probably one of his favourite pastimes now that things have shifted between them. 

No longer does she view him as the boy she’d loathed nor the Death Eater he’d become recently. Does she hate him? She doesn’t think so, no. Does she like him? Not exactly, but she’s starting to appreciate the unspoken truce between them that began that day in the drawing room. Malfoy could be funny with his smart quips and sarcasm when he wanted to be. But more importantly, does she trust him? She can’t quite decide. Though, there are times she sees some of his walls fall when he thinks nobody is watching. She hates it when that happens. It makes her mind wander into the category she’d aptly named ‘Things to Not Think About’ and yes, Draco Malfoy is at the top of that list.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Are you actually doing homework now?” The blond sounds incredulous as he peers down at her from his spot near the entrance of the drawing room. “And on runes?”

She flushes at his tone and then stiffens. “Wait, how are you seeing this?” Hermione taps on the yellowed pages of the large book with its faded dragonhide cover. “Don’t you have a restriction on what books you can read from the library?”

Malfoy arches a brow. “Yes,” he says slowly and his expression shifts into something akin to mocking. 

“But you brought the book _out_ of the library and you’re reading it here. The wards that limit me are now null and void.” 

“Oh.”

She isn’t aware of that loophole.

“We’re in the middle of a war and you’re doing homework? Granger, your hunger for books and being a terrible swot never ceases to astound me.” He smirks and saunters further into the room. “Or is that Potty and Weasel’s?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. 

While Malfoy’s animosity towards her has (mostly) faded, Harry and Ron still bore the brunt of his snide remarks and insults. But in the blond’s defence, Ron gave as good as he got whenever he spotted the Slytherin. Yet, on the other hand, Harry no longer reacted when his former rival threw insults his way. Instead, he would simply carry on as though nothing was amiss. She’d watched enough incidents to know that Malfoy would twitch imperceptibly before going after Ron once more. Harry’s silent dismissal had thrown the blond off his own game and Malfoy clearly didn’t like that.

“Harry and Ron are fine passing classes on their own!” she lies hastily.

Malfoy scoffs, closing the gap between them. “Right, and I’m Helga Hufflepuff!” He mimics in a high-pitched voice and begins buffing his immaculately trimmed nails against the front of his black shirt, examining them casually. He raises his brows superciliously at her. “Don’t bother denying that without you, the Dunderhead Duo would never have passed most of their classes without clinging to the edge of your skirts.”

“Don’t call them that!”

Malfoy sniffs. “If the shoe fits, then—”

“Malfoy!” she growls warningly, even though a small part of her is warmed by the tiny compliment given. “I mean it!”

“Fine, _fine._ Merlin, Granger, don’t get your white cotton knickers twisted up for me.”

She squeaks and hurls a stinging hex in his direction. “My knickers are absolutely none of your concern!” she retorts, ignoring the furious burning of her cheeks because _yes,_ her knickers are indeed made of cotton and are white. Hermione straightens, her fingers tightening around the vinewood of her wand as Malfoy shoots her a baleful glare as he rubs his arm. 

“Was that fucking necessary?”

“You were being a prat!”

He opens his mouth to spew something rude but his silver gaze falls to the table and he grimaces. “Salazar’s bloody arse, is one Dark Lord not enough for you?”

She blinks. “What?”

Malfoy jerks his chin towards her inherited copy of the children's book and the paper strewn to its side where she’d copied out the triangular-shaped symbol. “That.” His stare flicks back to her. “The Dark Lord and Grindelwald are not that alike if that’s what you’re researching about.”

_“Grindelwald?”_

The Slytherin looks at her, brows furrowing as he cocks his head. “The Dark Lord’s predecessor in championing blood supremacy? The Wizard who wanted to overturn the Statute of Secrecy back in the forties? Come on, Granger, you’re supposed to be the swot here.”

She huffs and scowls. “I _know_ who Grindelwald is! I just…” Hermione makes a sound of annoyance. “What makes you even think I was researching about him?” she demands because she _isn’t_ but if Malfoy thought she is… well.

Malfoy scoffs. “I’m not a simpleton, unlike those two trolls trailing after you all these years. This symbol,” he jabs his index finger into the paper, “was used by Grindelwald and his forces.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I’m a Malfoy, Granger—”

“Oh, fuck off with that!” she snaps. “I don’t see the great benefits of being a Malfoy! Look where your precious name has gotten you and your family! Under the servitude of some half-blood maniac!” 

The room grows colder and Malfoy’s face becomes shuttered.

Immediately, Hermione regrets the words that have spilt out of her mouth without restraint. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. No, she doesn’t regret her words but she does regret saying them out loud to him. She’s tired, her brain has been throbbing and her neck aches from her constant scouring over the numerous priceless books in the Black Library. What she wants and longs for is a breakthrough in her research and with Malfoy taunting her about his supposed knowledge, she’s lost the tenuous hold over her emotions. 

Her shoulders sag. “I’m sorry,” she rushes out almost immediately and glances up at him from under her lashes. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Malfoy is quiet as he twists the signet ring on his last finger. “You shouldn’t have,” he agrees flatly. “Even though you’re right.”

Hermione gawks up at him because _surely_ she must have heard wrong. Malfoy couldn’t be admitting his family’s dubious choices that led to their downfall to her, could he?

“Anyway,” he breaks the silence and turns away, effectively changing the subject. “To answer your question, there are far more books about Grindelwald back home in the Malfoy library. But more pointedly, his obsession with the Deathly Hallows.”

“The Deathly Hallows?” she echoes, the words sounding strange on her tongue. “What’s that?”

“It’s what you’ve been reading.” At her side, Malfoy picks up the tattered book she’d been bequeathed by Dumbledore and waves it in front of her face. “It’s in here. The Tale of the Three Brothers.”

“But,” she begins haltingly, her brows knitting together. “It’s just a storybook. A children’s fairytale. It’s not real.”

“Please spare me,” Malfoy shoots her a condescending look and returns the novel to her outstretched hand. “You’re a witch. Who’s to say what’s real and what’s not?”

Hermione purses her lips. She has to concede to that. She studies him sceptically, earnestly looking for any sign of deceit or mockery. “Don’t tell me you believe in that? In Death himself?”

“Don’t be bloody daft,” Malfoy scorns. “But,” he hesitates for a moment and shoves his hands into his pockets in a deceptively elegant manner. “Every rumour or story has a grain of truth in it. It wouldn’t be wise to entirely disregard something that could help.”

She watches him fidget for a bit and turns her gaze back to the book. “If that’s so, why did Professor Dumbledore give me this then it’s supposed to help against Voldemort—” she cuts herself off sharply, horror filling her up when she realises this is _Malfoy_ she’s talking to.

Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater to have ever existed.

Malfoy, the boy who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. 

Malfoy, the boy who’d almost killed Dumbledore with his wand.

How could she have slipped up to Draco Malfoy? How could she so easily forget who she’s speaking to?

Malfoy, noting her expression, merely juts his chin out and curls his lower lip.

Hermione regards him warily, her spine stiff as a board as he shifts his jaw. Is she fast enough to _Obliviate_ him? Steadily, she gets to her feet and holds her wand in a clammy grip at her side. That particular spell still sends memories of warm hugs and sugar-free cookies to her mind. Unbiddenly, the back of her eyes start to sting and with every fibre of her being, she wills them to _stop_.

“Relax, Granger,” he drawls and slouches insouciantly, his frame still towering over her. “The last thing I want is to run back to the Dark Lord. Not when he will kill me painfully and slowly just for deserting him.”

She swallows. “How can I be sure of that? You lie like you’re breathing.”

The corner of his eyes tighten, the arctic grey of his irises turning a shade darker. “You may or may not believe me, but I don’t wish to be eaten alive by that damned serpent of his,” he says flippantly, his tone belying the tension in his jaw.

Though his words are conveyed with a shrug and a disdainful sneer, she can see the trepidation creeping on the edge of his well-practised facade. She remembers his screams and the grotesque stain on his arm wreaking agony and tears on its wearer. 

Her shoulders slacken and she loosens her grip on her wand.

The apprehension lining Malfoy’s face fades.

“Night, Granger.” He offers a curt nod and slinks off into the shadows, his dark clothing giving him camouflage in the dimly-lit house. It is only the gleam of his hair from the wall sconces that hint at his retreat.

As he disappears, Hermione is hit with the startling realisation that she _does_ believe him.

* * * * *

“So what’s up?”

Hermione sets _The_ _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ down and flips it to the page where the triangular symbol lay. “This,” she points to it. “Do you see this? It’s the sign for the Deathly Hallows.”

The blank stares of her best friends had her rushing to explain and she props the book up on Harry’s bed with a pillow. “It’s used by Grindelwald’s movement when he was waging war in Europe. Someone drew it here.”

Harry frowns, shoving his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “So you’re saying Dumbledore drew it? And that there’s a link between this and Voldemort?”

“Wait, what’s the Deathly Hallows?” Ron interrupts, peering closely at the page.

“It’s the three items given by Death to the Peverell Brothers in this story,” she says. “A powerful wand, an invisibility cloak and a stone that brings the dead back. Here,” the tip of her finger goes over the straight line of the symbol. “This line represents the wand,” her finger then goes around the circle, “and this represents the stone and lastly,” she taps on a pointed side of the triangle, “the triangle represents the cloak.”

Green eyes flick up to her and Harry props his head up with his palm, elbow resting on the top of the bedspread. “So you’re saying that all this is real...from a children’s book?” 

She bites her lower lip and darts her gaze between the two boys. “I know it sounds utterly mad,” she says carefully and thumbs absentmindedly at the corner of a page. “But it makes sense. A wand that is given by Death? A wand that could be unbeatable? It does sound like something Voldemort would want.”

Ron shivers and leans against the headboard. “Blimey, imagine You-Know-Who being unstoppable? It’s mental! We’ll be done for!”

Harry hardens his gaze. “We can’t let that happen.” He turns to Hermione. “So if this is true, where’s the wand now?”

Her shoulders slump. “I don’t know. But if this wand does exist…” she trails off, raising her brows meaningfully. “Doesn’t it mean the other two Hallows are real as well?”

A moment of silence descends and she waits patiently for the realisation to hit. When it does, Ron doesn’t surprise her.

“Bloody hell!” The redhead shouts, jumping to his feet. “Mate, you have the cloak! The invisibility cloak!” 

Harry turns white. “But it’s been in my family for generations,” he stammers, eyes agog as he swivels his gaze between them. “Could it be?”

“It must be!” Ron smacks his forehead with his palm. “Invisibility cloaks never last as long as yours had! Why didn’t we see this earlier? You’ve had it since you were eleven! The Potters are descendants of the Peverell Brothers? Can hardly believe that!”

“Then where’s the stone? And more importantly, the wand?” Harry demands. “I have no doubt Voldemort intends to collect them all. He seeks immortality, hence the Horcruxes and with these Deathly Hallows, he’ll be unstoppable.” 

The three of them go quiet and Hermione tucks her hair behind her ears and closes the book. “Never mind that for now. We know he wants the Hallows and I can do more research about them later. But it wouldn’t matter unless we destroy his Horcruxes first. We’ve destroyed the diary and the ring. How’s it going with the locket?”

Harry grunts in frustration as he rummages through his rucksack and tosses the piece of jewellery on the soft bedspread. “I’ve been studying it but I still don’t know who R.A.B is!”

She looks at the octagonal necklace with its gold chain and case. Unsurprisingly, Slytherin’s locket had a glittering _S_ embedded with green stones on the front. Even though Hermione knows it’s a fake, she can’t help but feel the chill in her veins for everything this Founder has believed and stood for. 

“Well, from his note, we know he was a Death Eater who turned on You-Know-Who upon finding out about the Horcruxes” she lists and picks up the note laid in the locket. “And that he took the real one. So the question is, did he destroy it? If not, where is Slytherin’s real locket?”

Ron groans and clutches at his head. “Why are all these Slytherin Death Eaters so cryptic and cowardly with all this sneaking around? Just confront the damn half-blood and be done with it!”

“Well,” Hermione narrows her gaze. “You can’t say for sure if R.A.B was a Slytherin. Not all Death Eaters are. And I think turning on You-Know-Who while fully knowing the consequences isn’t cowardly, Ronald. The point is, he did betray Voldemort in the end! Not everyone dares to do so!”

Ron gapes at her. “‘Mione—”

“I was thinking,” she starts hesitantly, foreseeing the full blowout of her suggestion and decides not to use his given name. “We do have a former Death Eater living here… Maybe we could ask him? Surely he would—”

 _“Malfoy?!”_ Ron chokes and sputters, his face turning a predictable shade of red as it’s wont to do whenever the blond Slytherin is brought up. “Are you fucking mad?”

She slams her book shut. “Excuse you, Ronald!” 

“Harry! Tell her she’s being daft!”

“I am not!”

“Why the bloody hell would you tell _Malfoy_ ,” Ron sneers as the name passes his lips, “about any of this? As you said, he’s a Death Eater! As soon as he has a chance, the Ferret will go back crawling to his Master! Everyone knows the Malfoys are nothing but opportunists! What’s more opportunistic than giving information about us to Voldemort?”

“Ron—” Harry reaches out to touch his shoulder but the redhead shrugs him off violently.

“How can you even trust them?” Ron’s scowl is accusing and the snarl on his mouth infuriates her. “You’ve always been too trusting, Hermione! He could be playing you just for his amusement!”

“He helped me with the Hallows!” she retorts sharply, “Malfoy saw the symbol and told me about them! Without him, we wouldn’t have known anything about this!”

Ron turns red, or even redder than he was and Hermione is glad that Harry’s room is silenced for the redhead’s bellow could have woken Walburga Black’s screaming portrait on the first floor. 

“I cannot believe you’ll trust that fucking snake! Have you forgotten everything he’s done to us? To you? He’s a bigot, a bully and now, he’s a fucking Death Eater! How can you be so stupid to trust him?”

“It’s not as if I’m going to tell him everything!” she argues, eyes narrowing at her friend. “I think having some information is better than nothing at all! Without him, we could be sitting ducks for the enemy, ripe for the picking! It’s for the greater good!”

At this point, Hermione doesn’t even know why she’s arguing with Ron about Malfoy of all people when in fact, she’s furious that her smarts and discernment are brought into question. Is she too trusting? Maybe. But Hermione doesn’t know what’s wrong with offering second chances and giving the benefit of the doubt. When has that become something to look down on? Her parents had always taught her to be kind and compassionate and she’d _mostly_ stuck to those teachings. Maybe it is pride or self-righteous indignation but Hermione refuses to back down.

“You’re an idiot if you think Malfoy can—”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” she interrupts coolly, locking away her anger and hurt.

Ron lets out a bitter scornful sound and stomps out of the room and she watches almost resentfully at his retreat.

“You know,” Harry begins softly. “I’m not trying to play sides but Ron is right to be concerned about trusting Malfoy too easily.”

“So what? Do you think I’m a fool? Naïve and stupid?” Hermione retorts defensively. 

“No!” Harry almost shouts, brows furrowing. “I don’t think that at all! It’s just… He’s _Malfoy._ ” His green eyes plead with her to understand and Hermione, the sucker that she is, feels herself softening. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. And I know getting answers now is more important than ever but you can’t blame me for being apprehensive about this.”

“I know,” she says quietly, the fiery anger she felt has pretty much dissolved and all that’s left are mellow embers.

“Maybe you can help me understand why you think Malfoy is trustworthy?”

Hermione gazes at him and chews the side of her mouth anxiously. How can she explain the things she’d seen and the minute changes in Malfoy? Divulging them to a third party seems like a betrayal of trust. It feels…wrong. And as to what she feels towards the blond, Hermione doesn’t even know how to describe it. 

“It’s hard to explain.” She shifts on the bed and hugs her knees close to her chest. “But you’re right, I’ll be more discerning in what I share.”

“Ignore Ron,” Harry offers her a weak smile. “You’re Hermione Granger and all these second chances you’re giving Malfoy and to other perceived lost causes are what makes you special—makes you who you are.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she whispers as he gives her his signature crooked grin and leaves. 

She takes a minute or two to calm herself down and heads down the stairs. As much as she loathes to admit it, Harry and Ron did have the right to be concerned about Malfoy. Not once has the former Death Eater proclaim his change in views nor has he pledged to help them bring down the Dark Lord. He and his family are only here in the heart of the Order for protection and nothing else. 

But that doesn’t mean Hermione will admit it.

Shuffling to the library, she pulls out a first edition copy of the _Pureblood Directory._ Judging from the state of its pristine pages, she suspects the book has been frozen in time with preservation spells. It’s a weak attempt, Hermione knows, but if she ever needs a clue—no matter how small—to figure out who exactly was R.A.B, this rotten book she holds must have some answers.

Flipping through the pages, she scrunches her nose in disgust at the mere ideology of blood purity. Clearly, wizards and witches never paid any attention to inbreeding and its subsequent effects in the muggle world.

“Never pegged you to be interested in _that.”_

She glances to her left, only to see the statuesque blond leaning against a bookshelf, his grey orbs fixed on the book in her hand before they dart back to her face. “Malfoy,” she greets a tad curtly, raising a brow. “May I help you with something?”

“It seems like I’m the one who can help you,” he says, motioning to the publication. “Looking for Pureblood families to marry in? I can tell you which ones are more welcoming and which are not.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, thank you,” she says archly and closes the book firmly. “I’m just looking for a former Death Eater.”

“Who?”

Hermione observes him cautiously. It’s a look that doesn’t go unnoticed by Malfoy who promptly gives out an exaggerated sigh and crosses his arms. “A Death Eater who betrayed Voldemort in the First Wizarding War,” she says carefully.

“Who?” Malfoy may act nonchalant but she can see the curiosity in his demeanour.

“I don’t know his name, just his initials, R.A.B.”

Malfoy freezes and there’s an odd look on his face. “R.A.B?” he echoes in a strangled tone.

“Do you know who he is?” Hermione peers up at him speculatively, taking in his tense countenance from the way he swallows and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Granger,” he says, “Are you sure you’re the brightest witch of your age?”

“What?”

Malfoy lets out an almost hysterical-sounding laugh. “Maybe they should strip that title from you and grant it to me. _Draco Malfoy, the Brightest Wizard of His Age._ Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Malfoy!” she growls. “Who is R.A.B?”

He huffs and pushes his fringe away from his face. “Come here, Granger,” he orders and before she can protest or even refute his lordly overbearing tone, he takes her hand. 

Her eyes go impossibly wide when his large fingers take her smaller ones and begin to lead her out of the library. 

With her heart racing and the blood rushing through her ears, she trails after him, heedless of the direction he’s taking her. Hermione’s gaze is locked onto their hands; one so pale that she considers it the colour of freshly fallen snow, and the other, perhaps three or four shades lighter, with a hint of a tan. She can feel the rough callouses on his palm and the tips of his fingers from riding a broom. The feeling, she will admit is not unpleasant, but rather thrilling. Despite being a snake, his hold is warm, unlike the coldness she expects. Somehow, the warmth of his hand spreads to her chest and her heart skips a beat.

Gut swooping, she looks up at the back of his head and notes his nape is turning a faint shade of pink. Before she can comment or even react, he releases her and gestures towards the room they’re now in. 

She blinks, all thought of Malfoy and the rush of feelings he evokes disappears at the sight of the impressive Black family tapestry.

“Of course. The B stands for Black,” she murmurs to herself, gaze flicking from one woven face to another rapidly. 

“Stop craning about, you’ll look like a hippogriff with its hideous neck,” Malfoy drawls contemptuously and taps on a space of the forest green tapestry at her eye-level. “He’s there.”

With Malfoy’s directions, she jerks her head down, zeroing in on the face beside Sirius’ charred image.

Her body stills and her mouth drops.

“R.A.B,” she breathes out. “Regulus Arcturus Black.” 

* * * * *

“How did you know?” Hermione demands as she takes in the weaved portrait of the unsmiling boy. Regulus Black didn’t have the gleam of mischief in his dark solemn stare nor the carefree attitude his brother had. In Hermione’s opinion, he looked haunted and awfully burdened.

“You forget, Granger, that my mother’s maiden name was Black,” Malfoy says drily and looks at the tapestry with something unreadable on his angular face. “Regulus was her cousin. I may be a Malfoy but my mother never failed to educate me on her side of the family.”

“Oh.”

“Why were you looking for him, anyway? He’s long dead.”

At that, she presses her lips into a thin line. Ron’s sparks of misgivings cause a glimmer of doubt to surface. Is Malfoy helping because the knowledge he’ll glean would be an insurance policy should the Order crumble? Or is he intending to collect all they knew to earn favour with Voldemort? Hermione whirls around. “Why do you want to know?”

“You deflect like a Hufflepuff,” he says flatly.

“I mean it, Malfoy. What’s in it for you? Why bother at all?”

He meets her searching gaze unflinchingly. “I’m bored. There’s nothing to do here.”

“Liar.”

“It’s the truth, Granger. Don’t go looking for something that doesn’t exist.”

Hermione tilts her chin up. “Is it so hard to say what you really mean instead of covering it up with fake reasons?” 

It may be foolish of her, but she wishes— _hopes_ —that Ron is wrong. More than anything, she wants to be right about Malfoy, about him turning a new leaf, or to at least turn his back against the Dark Lord.

“Clearly, you will never last a day in the snake pit.”

“I _don’t_ want to be in the snake pit.” She crosses her arms and fixes him with the best stony gaze she has. “Ron and Harry don’t think you can be trusted even though you’ve helped with the Hallows.”

“What do you think?” Malfoy looks down at her through half-lidded eyes. 

She almost scoffs. Always with the deflections. Hermione licks her lower lip and against her better judgement, she answers truthfully. “I don’t know. I want to trust you. You’re no longer that hateful boy. But at the same time, you’re not doing anything to prove that I can.”

He is quiet, the unreadable mask that all Malfoys are famous for is back on his aristocratic features. “What makes you think I want you to trust me? Do you think I care about that?” he drawls coolly.

Hermione’s gut tightens and for some reason, she doesn’t know why, but she’s _hurt._ Clenching her jaw and doing her best to calm the rising anxiety curling in her stomach, she takes a step back. “I value honesty and loyalty, Malfoy. It’s just a shame you don’t.”

With that, she turns her back and leaves. She is starting to trudge up the stairs when thundering footsteps echo behind her and her arm is grabbed in a vice-like grip.

“What the—Malfoy! What are you—Will you let go!”

“No! You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, Granger!”

“Oh, I don’t? So you’ve not always been a coward who’d rather look after his own skin?” 

Malfoy’s face hardens, the tension in his face increasing. “It’s not about honesty or loyalty. And self-preservation isn’t _cowardice_ .” Contempt drips from his tone and she shrivels a little under his glare. “It’s about knowing when to walk away rather than rush at the enemy foolishly.” His baritone voice resembles ice shards slicing through her skin. “The problem with you, Granger, is that you don’t like _not_ getting a direct answer to your incessant questions. But not everyone is like your two bumbling oafs who wear their hearts on their sleeves.” 

She falters. “I—That’s not what—”

“ _Save it,_ ” he snarls. “I don’t owe you any answers.” Even though she stands on the fourth step and Malfoy on the first, he still has to tilt her head up to meet his cold but furious eyes. Hermione feels distinctly cornered by a ravenous predator, waiting to be torn apart. “My mind has to be flipped and read through like a book with fucking Legilimency once a week. The last thing I need is you poking about with your accusative ruddy questions!”

She bites her lip and watches helplessly as he stalks pass her in a flurry of black and silver, his footsteps stomping heavily on the old wooden stairs before he disappears and a pang of regret settles uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. Sagging against the balusters, she exhales slowly as something akin to shame crawls up her throat.

The last thing she’d wanted was for things to spiral out disastrously like that. She’d been frustrated and upset at his indifference and… hurt at his dismissive words.

“I did think, Miss Granger, that you aren’t like Mr Weasley or Mr Potter who often think without speaking but it seems you’ve proven me wrong once again.”

Her head snaps down and she blanches at the sight of the tall hooked-nose Headmaster of Hogwarts.

“Professor Snape!” she gasps. Belatedly, she wonders how long the wizard has been standing there. Had he seen and heard the whole argument and the words she’d hurled at Malfoy?

Snape’s icy demeanour doesn’t thaw as he merely raises a brow. Hermione tries to recall when was the last she’d seen the double-agent and she realises the man looks more tired and burdened since he’d dropped by the first time after Dumbledore’s death.

“Professor, I—” 

“Miss Granger, I do hope in the coming days, you will soon learn not to judge everyone with the same yardstick,” the man says in that aggravating tone she’d loathed all her life. “Us snakes are a whole different breed than lions.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you—”

“No,” Snape interrupts coldly. “You do know what I mean.”

She gapes as he sweeps past her and up the stairs, his black robes billowing behind him.

* * * * *

Snape’s arrival brings more than the wizard’s distrusted and aloof presence.

The bringer of bad news, he has resigned himself into sitting at the far corner of the room while everyone bursts into outrage and indignation at the items he’d provided.

With the death of the Minister, Scrimgeour, heralds the fall of the Ministry. Unsurprisingly, the Order of the Phoenix is now outlawed as a hostile organisation, an enemy to the Ministry of Magic and the whole of Wizarding Britain. Along with that, Harry Potter is also deemed Undesirable Number One and any of his friends and supporters will be hauled away to the Ministry for trial.

If that isn’t bad enough, it is the formation of the Muggleborn registry spearheaded by none other than Dolores Umbridge.

Hermione stares blankly at the anti-mudblood pamphlet before drifting down to the most recent copy of the Daily Prophet. On the front page, Harry’s solemn face is plastered on the right and the title declaring him as a suspect of Dumbledore’s murder is in bold letters. Speculation and rumours paint the whole article and already, the public is baying for his arrest. 

Around her, Remus Lupin looks deeply disturbed at Rita Skeeter’s book, _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._ The Weasleys look furious and outraged at everything as they all scowl and mutter amongst themselves, while Tonks, who has made a rare appearance, snorts derisively as her hair turns scarlet.

“How can they print this?” Harry demands, holding up the Daily Prophet. “These are all lies!”

“It’s the work of Voldemort,” Tonks answers with a frown. “Thicknesse is just a figurehead carrying out orders. It’s not looking good. The Ministry has started using the Aurors and snatchers to haul in wizards and witches with unclear blood backgrounds for questioning.”

The rest of the meeting continues with similar unfortunate news and Hermione feels the dread and anxiety curling up within her. Everything shared by everyone else is just a small glimpse into the world under Voldemort’s rule. It isn’t long before she quietly excuses herself and upon closing the door, she almost bumps headfirst into a tall form.

She is entirely sure he’d been eavesdropping, ear pressed against the door and all.

“Malfoy, wait,” she calls as the blond pivots on his heel and stalks off.

He ignores her.

“Malfoy!” she growls, hurrying after him down the hallway.

His steps quicken and damn his longer legs, Hermione finds it hard to catch up with his strides. So, she does the only thing she knows with surety that will catch his attention.

“Draco!”

He stops, his back tensing and Hermione flushes when he turns to her.

“What do you want, Granger?” His tone is cool, cutting even and there is no denying the iciness in his eyes.

She licks her bottom lip and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “You allowed me to call you by your name.”

“It is my name. Is that all?”

Hermione hesitates, swallowing nervously. Working up the courage to apologise to Draco Malfoy hasn’t been as easy as it seems. She’s never thought about apologising to the blond ferret before. Not even when she’d slammed her fist into his nose in their Third Year. 

It’s been two days since she has spoken to the Malfoy heir and already, the guilt gnawing at her conscience has been eating her alive. It doesn’t help that his sodding godfather has been throwing her knowing and disapproving looks whenever they meet. Each time, Hermione had glared at him in turn. Didn’t the man have the arduous task of playing spy instead of lounging around in Grimmauld Place like a bat? 

Regardless, she had been in the wrong and Snape was right.

“No,” she says quietly. “I-I’m sorry. For what I said the other day. I had no right to judge you, but you have to understand we’re in the middle of a war where people like me are dying for no reason. And right now, trust is worth more than all the Galleons you have in your Gringott vaults. I hope you understand where I’m coming from.”

Malfoy visibly jerks and to her, it looks as though the blond is struggling. “It’s fine,” he finally utters, his walls crumbling like building blocks. Hermione blinks as she sees how tired and troubled he truly looks. “Just forget the whole issue.”

“Malfoy—”

“You were right in being careful to trust me.” 

Her heart drops. “Are you going ba—”

 _“No!”_ he snaps and she withdraws back from his harsh tone. “No,” he repeats himself a little more calmly and runs a hand through his hair. “What I meant was, I know my word as a Malfoy probably means shite now, but you can trust that I will never go back to the Dark Lord. Not even if your Order falls.” 

_I’d rather die._

Hermione can hear his unspoken words ringing in her ears and not for the first time, she wonders at the time he’d spent in his home with Death Eaters for company.

“I know,” she whispers, the thought of losing and being at the hands of Voldemort chills her right to the bone. “That’s why we have to win. Failure isn’t an option.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re depressing as fuck?”

Ages ago, Hermione would have gotten offended and whirled off in a huff. However, time and death-defying experiences and knowing Malfoy well all play a part in stilling her tongue and mellowing her temper. In a sense, she recognises it as the latter’s attempt at changing a subject that makes him uncomfortable and unsure.

“No,” she replies archly. “Have you looked into the mirror? You’re like a giant bat with all the black you wear. Like your godfather,” she adds smugly.

Malfoy rolls his eyes but she can see the small curve of his lips. “But I’m better looking,” he counters. “And I don’t spend all my time in a Potions lab nor with my head in a book unlike a bushy-haired Gryffindor in front of me.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re a git?”

“Of course, I don’t see the point of living if I’m not known for being one. What about you, ‘O swotty one? Do you acknowledge being one?”

She snorts. “You’re such a prat.”

“When am I not?”

“Touché.” She concedes, liking the way Malfoy is almost smiling down at her. Without his face stuck in a permanent scowl or sneer, she thinks he is quite… _handsome._

The moment is broken when the door to the kitchen bangs open. Abruptly, Hermione jerks away and it is only then she realises how close she’d been standing to Malfoy. She hastily looks away from him, ignoring the staccato beats of her heart.

“You!” Tonks appears at the doorway, her eyes narrowing when she spots her cousin. “Just who I was looking for!” She scowls dangerously at him, jabbing her index finger into his chest. “Cousin, do tell your sodding father that no, I _refuse_ to get a new cane for him to shove his wand into!”

Hermione presses her lips together, doing her best to suppress the giggles erupting from the back of her throat. She nearly fails.

Malfoy’s eyebrows could have found a new home high up on his forehead from how they are raised. “What?”

“Your. Father. Is. A. Prat,” Tonks enunciates slowly as she glowers up at him. “He and his bloody cane, that’s what!”

At that, Hermione loses her restraint and bursts into peals of laughter, ignoring how Malfoy shoots her a dirty look. Though, she can tell it lacks the usual heat and annoyance that accompanies it. Notedly, his eyes are warm, unlike the glaciers they’ve been.

Her cheeks grow hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, so much for updating every Monday, I guess I was too optimistic seeing that most of my writing is done during the weekends. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this piece and I just want to say thank you to everyone who gave such overwhelming response to the first chapter! I certainly wasn't expecting any of that and I truly appreciate it!
> 
> Now, I'll try my best to update once a week but seeing that it's during the holiday season, work might get heavier for me. At most, I'll update once every week and a half. And I know I said this will be less than 10 chapters and I hope it will stick to that. But we'll see.
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated and I do hope the characters don't come across as ooc or anything and I would really love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

“So you’re saying Slytherin’s real locket was in this very house all these years?” 

“Yes.” Harry nods as Remus runs his hand through his mousy brown hair and fixes his weary gaze on Regulus’ replica of the Founder’s legendary relic.

Hermione chances a glance at the scowling house-elf at the corner and adds, “Kreacher said Regulus had commanded him to destroy it but he couldn’t no matter what he did.”

“And Mundungus Fletcher stole it?” Tonks clarifies and leans closer.

“Right.”

“You have to admit this sounds utterly incredible,” Remus begins slowly, eyes darting towards the three Gryffindors. “But I believe the three of you,” he says just as Ron makes an indignant sound. “So it’s safe to assume the locket could be with anyone now if he did manage to sell it.” 

“Yes,” the trio chime in unison.

“Morgana help us,” the werewolf mutters under his breath and straightens. “Nevermind that, we’ll track him down and hopefully he’ll lead us to the buyer.”

Tonks purses her mouth and nods haltingly. “I think I know where he is.” At the inquiring looks thrown in her direction, she continues, “I overheard the Snatchers at the Ministry. They’re starting to crack down on any peddlers or sellers without a Ministry-approved license. It’s just my luck I’ve heard them talking about someone with the name, ‘Fletcher’.”

“That’s great!” Harry exclaims and jerks away from the table, pacing the length of the room as he gestures wildly. “How soon can we grab him?”

Remus exchanges a cautionary look with his wife. “Harry, my boy, we understand that destroying Lord Voldemort’s Horcruxes are of paramount importance, but if I’m not wrong, no one knows how to destroy one yet, am I right?”

Hermione frowns and chews on her lower lip. “There is the venom of a basilisk,” she offers uncertainly. “Harry used that against the diary. But right now, we don’t have access to any. Not unless we sneak into the Chamber in Hogwarts.”

“That’s out of the question. From what Severus has shared, Death Eaters patrol the school and the Carrows,” Remus pauses to grimace, “are in charge of DADA now. We can’t risk it.”

“Then what do we do?” Ron demands at her side. “We can’t just sit back and do nothing!”

“That’s not what we’re saying.” Tonks smiles reassuringly. “We still have time to figure out how to destroy the Horcruxes. But Harry’s right,” she directs to her husband. “Grabbing that awful necklace and having it in our possession should be our topmost priority.” 

Remus sighs and nods. “Yes, of course. But this stays amongst us here. We don’t need Mundungus going underground should he hear that he’s wanted by us.”

Together, they agree and Hermione doesn’t miss the way Ron and Harry look excited by the prospect of finally having some action and progress on their hunt. It hasn’t been easy lately, she admits. With each day that passes, people lose faith and already, she doesn’t want to think about the countless innocents at the hands of the Death Eaters or even Voldemort himself.

“How did you know it was Regulus Black that had the locket anyway, Hermione?” Tonks raises a brow quizzically.

Hermione blinks, shifting under the weight of four pairs of eyes. “Actually, I didn’t,” she confesses quietly. “We knew someone had the real locket under their initials R.A.B. The problem was not knowing _who_ that was. But Malfoy helped,” she says in a rush. “He took me to the Black Family tapestry and said his mother taught him all about her family.”

Tonks’ mouth falls open as she gapes at her and it doesn’t take a genius to know how Ron feels just from the scorching glare boring holes through the side of her head. Harry, on the other hand, simply jerks his head grudgingly, no doubt recalling their earlier conversation about trusting Draco Malfoy the previous day.

“Draco told you?” Remus asks, brows furrowing. His tone borders on disbelief and some form of curiosity. “I take it that you’ve been careful about—”

“Yes, sir,” she interjects hastily and avoids Ron’s simmering glower. “I promise I’ve not told him anything about the Horcruxes or any missions Order members partake in.” Hermione focuses her gaze on Remus and Tonks. “Actually,” she begins carefully, “he’s been of great help. Without him, I wouldn’t have known about Regulus and other invaluable facts.”

The room becomes silent and Hermione swallows, fingers twisting into the hem of her sweater under the table as she waits for her friends’ reactions.

Tonks starts with a shake of her head, a growing smile on her face as she leans against the back of her chair. “Cousin Draco, huh? Well. Didn’t see that one coming. Not with those blinding Malfoy genes.”

Harry barks out a laugh from his spot near the table and with a sense of relief, Hermione feels the tension in the room dissipate. She exhales quickly and turns to Remus who is stroking his chin pensively.

Realising the occupants of the kitchen are looking to him for his opinion, the former professor relaxes and offers a small grin before addressing her. “Don’t worry, dear girl. I’m not mad, just wary. But I understand your point—that any information gained is more important than childhood grudges.” 

From the corner of her eyes, Hermione can see Ron’s mouth twist as he bristles, clearly taking Remus’ words as a slight against him alone. She sighs inwardly and angles her head away.

“Anyway,” Remus continues with a rueful grin. “I guess it’s more than fortunate that Draco isn’t wasting his brains and knowledge up there in his room.”

Hermione barely prevents herself from snorting.

* * * * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt is eye-catching in his royal blue-coloured robes and matching Kufi, she reflects as she watches the Auror brief their fellow Order members.

“Remember, even if the slightest thing goes wrong, be it the Polyjuice wearing off or someone realising you’re not who you’re disguised as, abort the mission,” Kingsley instructs sternly, his sharp eyes scanning over the occupants of the room.

“Why is it that I feel you’re all looking at me?”

Hermione hides her grin beneath a muffled cough as Harry frowns as everyone hastily averts their knowing pointed stares.

“Well, you are known for being reckless,” Kingsley answers boldly and with a raise of his brows. “And I have seen it with my own eyes. Nothing you say can convince me otherwise, Harry.” 

“But what if things do go wrong and it’s just _there_ ripe for the picking—” Harry tries and on instinct, Hermione rolls up an old copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and whacks it on the back of his head. “Ow! Hermione!”

“No buts, Harry,” Remus says firmly and crosses his arms. “Dolores Umbridge is not a witch to be messed with. And what we’re attempting to do is certainly that.”

“It’s just our rotten luck that she has the locket,” Ron mutters. “Of all the people in Wizarding Britain, why did that cow have to buy it?”

“I just wish I could go with you all,” Hermione says quietly.

Ever since the Order has discovered the current whereabouts of the locket with the help of Mundungus who needed some _persuasion_ , it has been quickly decided that the two boys would go in disguised as two Ministry workers with the help of Polyjuice much to Molly Weasley’s loud and vocal displeasure. Tonks, with her Metamorphmagus ability, and her current position as an Auror would aid in creating a diversion should the boys need a quick escape. And if things went south, Kingsley would step in to help.

Or at least that had been the original plan. 

Now, Hermione can’t help herself from scrunching up her nose at Tonks who has morphed into an incredible likeness of Dolores Umbridge herself. Having the mere image of that awful bigoted witch in front of her brings nothing but horrid memories of blood quills and the screams of centaurs—she shudders and turns away.

It may not be Umbridge herself, but the likeness is so uncanny that it unnerves her.

“Don’t worry, ‘Mione,” Ron gives her a small grin. “We’ll be fine. This new plan Harry’s come up with should go well.”

In response, Remus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Is it?” Hermione replies flatly and shakes her head. “I just want it to be known that I disapprove of this. What was wrong with the old plan again?”

“Hermione—”

“No, Harry!” she interjects and shakes her head vigorously, the anxiety that has filled her since the change of plan finally explodes. “This plan borders on crazy! Having Tonks impersonate Umbridge is one thing but having the backup plan of getting the Aurors to try to arrest the _real_ Umbridge as an imposter is nothing short of insane!”

“Thanks, I think—”

“No!” she raises her voice, her words taking on a shrilly tone. “I should come with you two! What if—”

“Hermione, I do share your concerns but that’s just a backup plan,” Remus says tiredly. “I doubt it would be needed in the end. The Ministry is a big place. Regardless, this is probably our only shot of getting that necklace. They have to go.”

She nods reluctantly and blinks back tears of frustration and worry. “Okay, fine. Stay safe,” she whispers as she throws her arms around Harry’s neck and hugs him tight. “Please don’t be rash.” 

“We’ll be fine, Hermione,” he reassures and squeezes her. “You and the others have gone through this plan back and forth and even sideways! With your brains and Kingsley and Tonks’ knowledge, we really couldn’t be in better hands. And before you know it, we’ll be back.”

No matter the severity of the issue, Harry’s optimism never fails to pull a grudging smile from her. 

“Promise me,” Hermione says as she pulls back. “You have to.”

“Alright,” Harry says, and the sight of his crooked grin calms her rising uneasiness and causes her smile to become wider. “I promise.”

She turns to Ron and offers him the same hug, gathering the same assurance that he wouldn’t follow in their best friend’s footsteps in risk-taking. “Take care, Ron,” she says quietly, biting her lower lip as Ron’s blue eyes trace her features in a fashion she deems as tenderly and perhaps...longingly.

Her stomach squirms in discomfort and Hermione is ever so aware of how his grip is tighter around her waist and the soft smile he’s giving isn’t totally of a platonic nature.

“I’ll be fine, ‘Mione,” he repeats. His eyes lower and he releases her. “I know things between us have been tense and I know I’m mostly at fault with my temper and all… I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

She takes a shaky step back and tucks a wayward curl behind her ear. “It’s alright, Ron. I-I think I’m partly to blame. I wasn’t helping with always jumping at your throat—”

“No, it’s not,” he interrupts. “It’s Malfoy’s fault.” 

Hermione blinks at the sneer that paints his freckled complexion. “What?”

“If it wasn’t for Mum, I would’ve been here at Grimmauld and you wouldn’t have to fraternise with _Malfoy,”_ Ron’s sneer turns uglier as he throws a dark look up the stairs, “which, results in you being so… um, uh, _defensive_ and mental about stuff.”

She gapes at him, wondering how on earth Ron could have grasped at that reasoning before glancing around the hallway, noting everyone else seems to actively pretend they’ve _not_ been listening. Deciding that now isn’t the time to rebut his reply or to make a scene, Hermione smiles weakly and wraps her arms around herself and turns to the Metamorphmagus.

“Tonks, take care of them and please come back safely.” 

“What, no hug for me, Hermione?” Tonks’ Umbridge raises a thin arched brow, eerily similar to that of the real Umbridge that positively drips with condescension.

“I just, um, you look so like Umbridge,” she says lamely, “I couldn’t—”

“Nah, I’m just kidding with ya.” Tonks’ Umbridge allows a wide smile on her toad-like face—that seems so unnatural—to stretch across her puckered simpering mouth. “I understand. Bloody heck, even Remus doesn't want to give me a goodbye kiss!”

Remus cringes visibly as he shakes his head. “Dora…”

“Right, right, I’ll shut this mouth up.” The sight of Umbridge grinning as she mimes zipping her mouth and locking it before throwing the imaginary key away causes a ripple of laughter amongst the group and for the heavy tension that had settled to recede.

“We should go,” Kingsley says, his brows furrowing and begins making his way to the front door. “We’ll convene here by the end of the day and if something really is to go wrong, do not come after us.”

Hermione worries her bottom lip as her friends brush past her as they leave, Harry with a determined nod, Ron with a hopeful grin and Tonks, who waggles her pudgy fingers in the air playfully before the door closes firmly. The solemn quietness that appears in their wake highlights the finality that this is _it_ , that her friends are braving the world outside Grimmauld Place, risking detection at the hands of Voldemort and his followers.

And again, she and Remus are the ones left behind.

“I hate being left out,” she says quietly and Remus pats her shoulder in commiseration. “It’s not as if I can’t help.”

“I know,” the werewolf sighs. “But there is strength in staying behind too. Plus,” he cocks his head and begins shrugging on his weathered coat, “you know the rule that there must always be an Order member present at Headquarters.”

“But you’re here.”

“Yes, however, I’m afraid I have a pressing meeting with Minerva.” Remus gives her a rueful smile. “I trust you can hold the fort up in my absence?”

Her shoulders slump. But Hermione recognises the trust and responsibility layered in that one sentence. Hence, she nods and follows him to the closest fireplace, watching a little forlornly as her former teacher leaves Grimmauld Place amidst the wild dancing neon green flames of the floo.

She falls back against the wall and exhales heavily as both her heart and mind warred with each other. What Hermione knows is that she should continue combing the Black Library that could aid in their cause. However, her heart is with her friends. Wishing that she’s with them is one thing, the various bad scenarios that could befall them flashing through her mind is another. 

Plus, the Ron Thing.

With the situation they’re in, how can she break the news to her best friend that they’re simply destined to be friends and only friends? She groans quietly and thumps her head back.

What she needs is a distraction. 

A flash of silver catches her attention and her head turns in alarm despite her brain knowing it’s her housemate finally making an appearance.

“Why so glum, Granger?” he drawls as he saunters down the stairs, draped in his customary black slacks and shirt. “You look as though your cat got run over by a broom or something. Speaking of, where is that mangy fluffball?”

The mention of her familiar brings the involuntary compression of her heart and Hermione closes her eyes and takes a fortifying breath. The tightness in her chest and the ache in her heart does little to still the sting in the back of her eyes. Memories of her childhood filter through her mind and it is only the grounding feel of her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm that brings her back to reality.

“Crookshanks is with my parents.”

“Oh.”

Malfoy looks distinctly uncomfortable and Hermione doesn’t know if it’s the stark verbal reminder that her parents are Muggles and her, a Muggleborn or that he notices she’s on the verge of tears. Unfortunately for her, she has inherited her mother’s penchant for blotchy cheeks and bloodshot eyes when on the brink of waterworks.

Upon Obliviating the memories of her parents, she’d been reluctant to leave Crookshanks with them. Taking part in the war left little time in caring for a pet, and the idea of her parents having a part of her with them in the form of her cat did bring a semblance of comfort to her conflicted mind. Whatever it was, it’d been a small bandaid applied on the gaping ripped hole in her heart that is her parents, Richard and Jean Granger. It was worth the minuscule risk of them remembering her as long Crookshanks remains at their side on her behalf.

“Never mind.” She blinks hard and quickly swipes at her eyes. “What do you need?”

“What?” Malfoy crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “No, I… Where did everyone go?”

She looks at him steadily, wondering how much he must have overheard from their farewell in the hallway earlier. “Out,” she says shortly, eyeing him carefully. “But they’ll be back later,” she adds in a warmer tone. “So what did you hear while eavesdropping?”

He rolls his eyes and slouches in a defiant yet elegant fashion. “It’s not considered eavesdropping when the lot of you are gathered in the bleeding hallway and yelling at the top of your voices.”

She snorts, somewhat thankful for the distraction that Malfoy provides. “We weren’t yelling,” she retorts good-naturedly. “And answer my question.”

“Nothing much, just that Pothead and Weasel King are probably off gallivanting around again.”

Suppressing the urge to reprimand him for his stupid nicknames for her best friends, Hermione settles for glowering up at him from under her lashes. “And?”

“What? Is this an interrogation now?”

“No,” she huffs and shoots him a sideways glance as they walk down the long hallway and into the drawing room. “Just… oh forget it.” How can she explain that she’s just being careful without him taking it the wrong way?

“Nice deflection.”

“Stop mocking me.”

“Not my fault if you take it the wrong way.”

“Apparently, there’s no right way with you, is there?”

Malfoy lets out a sharp bark of laughter and she can’t help but smile at the way the corner of his eyes creases with laugh lines.

“Takes one to know one.”

“So says the Slytherin.” 

He arches a brow superciliously. “Are you saying I have Gryffindork tendencies? Because if you are, I do have to point out you’re not exactly equipped to live out your school years in the Slytherin dungeons.”

“Because of my blood?”

From the way Malfoy freezes and how his jaw works uselessly for a few seconds, she knows she has taken him off his guard. Her eyes lower and she observes the way his fists clench at his sides or how he’s avoiding her searching gaze.

Silence permeates around them and Hermione sighs because she isn’t trying to start a fight with him. Despite the truce that has formed there are still things they can’t speak about yet. “I wasn’t—”

“No,” he finally interrupts, his tone a little hesitant. “Because you think too much with your heart. Because you’re too trusting and forgiving. Because no matter what, you try to see the good in people.”

Her eyes widen and her lips part. “W-what?”

“Stop gawking at me, Granger. Or else I might start to think you’re related to the Giant Squid with its large bugged-eyes.”

She gasps, affronted and realising she’s still holding the rolled-up copy of the _Prophet_ , she whacks his arm, the sound of paper making impact with his clothed arm echoes mutely around the room. “Excuse _you,_ Malfoy!”

He slides his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and tosses a smirk her way. “Of course, I am, Granger.”

She sputters. “That’s not what I meant, you git!” Fighting back the growing grin on her face is futile as Malfoy shrugs and makes an exaggerated face that causes her to snort out a bubble of laughter. 

“Can’t blame me. Hard to know what you mean most of the time with that brain of yours.” 

She scoffs and throws herself into the dark green velvet-lined armchair she’d coined as hers the moment the Order has decided on Grimmauld Place as their Headquarters. Opposite her, Malfoy settles himself sideways on the matching armchair with his lanky legs resting over one armrest and his head on the other. With an arm resting over his torso and the other holding up a book, he looks terribly at ease and unlike the scowling gaunt boy she remembers that fated day he came.

Peering at him from over the top of her book, Hermione indulges herself in contemplating how things would have turned out had Narcissa Malfoy not strongarmed her family into switching sides. Would things still be the same? Or would the Malfoys continue their best efforts in trying to pick themselves up from their fall in grace? Would the Order be as strong as it is now with their growing numbers? Or would they be splintered, separated from each other as they tried to remain undetected? Would she be living in a tent in the middle of nowhere with her best friends as they undertook the burden of hunting the Horcruxes alone? The idea that things could be so different from her current reality astounds her. 

“You’re staring, Granger.”

She refuses to react. “You know,” she starts, ignoring his observation. “It’s the end of October and I realised you’ve been here for close to three months and I still don’t know how your mother managed to strike that deal with us.”

Predictably, Malfoy angles his head towards her and straightens in his chair. “Your point?”

“How did she? From what I remember and know of your father, he wouldn’t have gone quietly.”

A brief display of anger flashes across his face and Malfoy leans forward and steeples his hands together, his elbows resting on the armrests, his face carefully blank. Once more, he is the paragon of a proper Pureblood heir, the scion of a Great House. “You know nothing of my father, Granger.”

“Alright,” she backs down hastily, realising Lucius Malfoy is a touchy subject. “I’m just curious about how your mother—”

“After the events of the Astronomy Tower, I was… _disciplined_ for my failure in killing Dumbledore with my wand.” Malfoy is distant and Hermione notes with growing alarm as his eyes focus unseeingly on a spot above her head, his voice becoming monotonous as though he is reciting a line from a weather report and not recounting what must have been the worst night of his life. “Mother had to witness the whole thing and I guess that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“So she reached out to your Aunt Andromeda to arrange a meeting?” 

“Yes. Of course, Father protested heavily but Mother always has a spine of steel and—Aargh!”

Her eyes grow wider as Malfoy hunches over violently, his angular face blanching as he writhes in his seat. His chest heaves as he begins gasping large great heaving breaths.

“W-what...what’s going on?” Hermione scans over his form, searching for the source of his sudden torment before zeroing in on the way he grips his left forearm. “Is it the Mark again?”

“Nothing!” he grits out through clenched teeth, his eyes screwing shut as his body quivers uncontrollably, the knuckles of the affected arm turns white from how hard his fingers are digging into the stuffed armchair. “Just bugger off, Granger!” He wrenches himself out of the armchair when she crouches before him to reach for his hand. 

“Malfoy…”

“No!” He shouts. “Just leave me alone!” With that, he stumbles out of the room and Hermione is left watching his retreating form and hearing his unsteady trek up the stairs. 

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear her mind, she narrows her eyes and rises to her feet to follow him. Wand in her hand, she darts up the creaky stairs to the third floor, just in time to see Malfoy’s door slam shut. With a muttered _Alohomora_ , the lock snaps open and she bursts in to see him cradling his arm as he slides to the ground just inches away from his bed, his back bowing as he lets out a sharp piercing cry that sends a shiver down her spine.

“Malfoy!” she snaps, hurrying to him. “You can’t just—”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“Will you stop it! You won’t get any of my mudblood germs if I just touch you!” she yells, ignoring his weak attempts to push her away. “You have to—”

“DON’T FUCKING USE THAT WORD!” Malfoy roars as his head jerks up and his attempts to bat her hands away grow in fervour. His eyes are large and wild, the colour of his irises darkening, resembling the stormy skies amid a hurricane.

As soon as his bout of anger erupts, it fades into barely a simmer. Watching him shy away from her like a cornered prey, Hermione swallows and chews furiously on her bottom lip. Her fingers are itching to help the longer whimpers and choked sobs escape from his throat. “Malfoy. It could get worse.”

“No!”

She pauses and hesitates for less than a second. “Draco, _please_ ,” she begs in a hushed voice. “Just let me have a look. Let me _help_.”

Malfoy—oh, who is she kidding— _Draco_ , shudders and slowly uncoils from his tightly-wound posture on the floor. Fixing his glassy eyes on her through his sweat-drenched hair that falls over his forehead, their eyes lock. Something in the air snaps and unthinkingly, she moves closer. Always the one to take initiative, Hermione stretches her palm out in his direction and waits.

It is an invitation and something more than an olive branch all at once.

She doesn’t have to wait long; silently, Draco lifts a trembling hand to her. Inwardly, her lungs expand and she offers a tremulous smile his way. Their hands touch, his fingers curling a limply around hers and she takes it. Not wasting any more time, she pushes up his sleeve to take in the sight of the Mark, which is more volatile than ever. 

Hermione takes a quick breath and ever aware of Draco’s eyes on her, she lifts her wand and mutters the series of incantations Remus has taught her. The Mark swirls furiously and both the skull and serpent seem to be glaring at her, promising retribution for attempting to interfere with their plans for agony. She ignores it and concentrates, feeling the way the blond tenses under her grip and how shallow his breaths are. 

Draco is no longer whimpering but with how he cradles his arm when she releases him, she feels that familiar stab of sympathy and something like….new-found anger at Voldemort for reducing a teenage boy to _this._

“Is that better?” she asks as she helps him up and into his bed.

He grunts, curling away from her to face the wall.

“Draco?”

“Just go.” His voice is quiet, devoid of any emotion but if she focuses hard enough, Hermione can feel the despair and self-loathing emanating from him.

Hermione lingers at her spot, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Darting her gaze between the bed and door, she has half a mind to do as he says, yet the stirring in her gut compels her to stay. No one deserves to be left alone after going through _that,_ she thinks to herself. The sense of déja vu hits her and distantly, she recalls being in this exact situation not too long ago under the same circumstances.

Mind made up, she sighs and turns away. Summoning a rickety chair from a neighbouring room, she drags it to the corner adjacent to the bed where the floor lamp stood and seats herself. With another _Accio,_ her copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet lands in her lap. 

Picking the book up, she sneaks one more glance in Draco’s direction and upon seeing his still figure, she continues where she’d left off in the infamous romantic tragedy. However, as the minutes pass, she will not deny stealing more than a few glimpses at her companion who she’s sure is still awake.

* * * * *

“Hermione?”

She jolts up, head jerking as a hand gently shakes her shoulder. Blinking groggily, she swivels in her chair, blurry eyes focusing on Remus’ concerned countenance. 

“Remus?” she croaks, slowly stretching her arms. The feel of blood rushing through her limbs causes her to wince and belatedly, she realises she must look a fright.

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes.” She nods and attempts to run her fingers through her hair. “I-I must have fallen asleep,” she says, glancing in Malfoy’s direction to only see that his bed is empty. If it wasn’t for the rumpled sheets and the faint scent of sandalwood in the air, Hermione would’ve been wondering how the hell she’d landed up here and if everything had merely been a dream.

“Here?” Remus raises a brow. 

Hermione flushes and sits up straighter. “I—”

“Ahh, never mind me, it’s none of my business.” His brown eyes twinkle and he turns on his heel, heading to the doorway. “I just wanted to let you know the good news. They’re back and they have it.”

That garners her attention. “They do?” Her eyes light up and Hermione springs to her feet, dropping her book onto the chair. As she steadies herself, a hand splayed on the wall for balance, a soft grey blanket falls to the ground and Hermione gapes at it. She doesn’t remember bringing one with her earlier when she had summoned the chair and book up. Brows wrinkling, she slowly picks it up, her fingers running over the patterned knitted wool as she attempts to fill in the blanks.

Merlin, she hadn’t even been aware of one being draped over her.

“Is something the matter?”

Her gaze flies up to meet Remus’ quizzical one. “Oh, um, no.”

Mind racing, she hastily folds the bedspread neatly and lays it on the chair with her book and quickly follows after Remus. “Was anyone hurt?” she asks distractedly and throws a glance over her shoulder back into the room.

Among the sparse furniture, her eyes land on Draco’s bed and she swallows thickly.

His blanket is gone.

* * * * *

Slytherin’s real locket is even more hideous in person. 

The group comprising Hermione and her best friends, along with the Lupins stare at the gold locket with a mixture of awe and disgust. Here lying before them, is a piece of history, an item of myth and legend and the fact that it belonged to a Hogwarts Founder that lived a thousand years ago sends the swot within her into a tizzy.

More than ever, Hermione itches to touch it.

However, the malevolence that radiates from the necklace reminds her that it is no longer just a historical artefact, but a Horcrux. It has to be destroyed.

Amazingly, the boys had been successful due to disguising themselves as Aurors who managed to blend in at the Ministry. Getting the locket by _Stupefying_ the real Umbridge in the women’s lavatory was a lucky bonus. Tonks had merely erased the memories of the horrid frog-like witch and snatched the locket before leaving for the meet-up point at the entrance of the Ministry. 

And that was where Ron’s Polyjuice disguise had started to fade, bringing attention to his auburn locks and freckled features. 

Thankfully, with some luck that the Ministry atrium had been crowded, the trio managed to get away amidst the spells and hexes thrown their way. All in all, Hermione is just relieved that their backup plan didn’t have to be used in the end.

Tonks, who is the only one mildly injured with slicing hexes thrown at her direction from a Death Eater she names as Corban Yaxley, fiddles at her bandaged arm and shrugs. “So, what are we going to do with it now?”

“Destroy it,” Ron answers, shooting guilty looks to the Metamorphmagus, who promptly pokes him in the gut.

“It’s a bloody shame,” Remus murmurs, staring in fascination at the locket which appears to have dark smoke swirling within its depths. “I can’t believe it. Knowing that this belongs to Salazar Slytherin and yet seeing it with my own eyes…” he trails off, leaning closer to peer at it.

“So what do we do?” Harry pipes up, absentmindedly rubbing at his infamous scar. “Where do we keep it?”

“Beats me. But I don’t want to be near that thing,” Tonks says. “What do you two think?”

Ron grimaces and exchanges a _look_ with Harry. “We were thinking we could wear it?” What should have been a statement turns into a question at the glares thrown in his direction.

“Absolutely not!” Remus snaps, looking utterly horrified at the suggestion. “It’s a Dark object with a piece of Voldemort’s soul in there. Who knows what could happen to the wearer? And let’s not forget what happened to your sister!”

Both boys look suitably chastened and they begin to fidget.

“Well, what do we do, then?” Harry demands and begins his pacing. “We can’t just have it lying about here. Not when we can’t destroy it!”

The room falls into grim silence and it is only the sound of a cocky drawl that grabs the attention of everyone in the kitchen. “What is that thing?”

Hermione turns, her brows furrowing as Malfoy leans against the doorway, looking wholly unaffected and nonchalant as his eyes glance around the room. Honey-brown meets arctic grey and Hermione can feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

Hastily, she ducks her head, willing the blush to go away. She hasn’t seen him since the boys and Tonks got back from the Ministry earlier. In fact, she suspects he’s been hiding from her.

“Cousin,” Tonks greets with a half-smile. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Malfoy!” Ron growls, jumping up and glares daggers at the blond. “Get the fuck out! It's official Order business!”

“I’m just hungry,” he replies flippantly, crossing his arms and shooting the redhead a disdainful sneer. “It’s something I assume you should be familiar with considering the holes in your pockets.”

“Draco,” Remus shakes his head reproachfully.

To his credit, the blond lowers his gaze and drops his arrogant posture. “So what’s that?” He jerks his chin to the gleaming piece of jewellery lying innocently on the table. “Are we running out of funds that we’re becoming jewellery dealers now?”

Harry snorts and directs a pointed grimace to Remus. It is a look that doesn't go unnoticed by Hermione. She leans closer, darting narrowed eyes between the pair, realising an unspoken conversation is taking place—a conversation that no one else seems to be a part of. 

The werewolf nods once and angles his body to Draco, locking his hands together on the table in front of him. “Draco, take a seat.”

 _“What?”_ Ron gapes, his face turning as red as his hair. “Remus, he’s not—”

“Hermione trusts him,” Remus interrupts and raises his brows. “And Draco has proved himself with the information given. If it isn’t for him, we wouldn’t have this,” he gestures to the Horcrux, “with us right now. And he may be able to shed some light on our conundrum.”

“We would have figured it out without him,” the redhead retorts mulishly, sinking back down to his chair.

“But how long would that have taken? We can’t afford that, not when Lord Voldemort grows stronger by the day.”

Hermione watches as Draco visibly recoils when Tom Riddle’s assumed name is spoken. Despite that, his face is shuttered, not revealing his reaction to being included in their meeting. Yet, by now, Hermione is mostly familiar with his tells and with the way his eyes flit around the room and how stiffly he’s holding himself, she can sense his apprehension and hesitation.

“Draco, are you joining us?” Tonks prompts, a warm smile on her face. “Or are you going to be a block of wood standing all the way there?”

“I—” He presses his mouth into a thin line and slowly strides to the space on Hermione’s right. “Salazar only knows what the lot of you are thinking,” he mutters under his breath.

“Mmm,” Remus hums. “We are Gryffindors.”

Tonks clears her throat and jabs her uninjured elbow into her husband’s side. 

“Ah, and Hufflepuffs,” the werewolf amends quickly.

“Should have known you were just using me for my giant brain, Granger,” Draco says as he slides into the chair. She catches a whiff of that sandalwood musky scent she recognises as belonging solely to him when his arm brushes against her shoulder. “And I thought you were the swot who knows everything,” he continues before his hooded-gaze falls to the locket. “Is that... what I think it is?”

Hermione smirks and arches a brow. “And here I thought you knew everything about your bloody Founder.”

“Don’t swear, Granger, it’s unbecoming.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, realising belatedly that the banter between her and the Malfoy heir has captured the attention of everyone. “You’re one to talk,” she mutters and glances at Remus who appears bewildered and pleasantly surprised.

“What do you think it is, Draco?” Remus asks carefully. 

“Slytherin’s locket.” Draco slowly stretches a hand out and before his lithe fingers can touch the golden chain, Hermione smacks his hand away. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t touch it!” she hisses. “It’s dangerous!”

“It’s just a bloody necklace!” Draco snaps. “How dangerous can that be?”

“I’m afraid I have to disprove you of that notion.” It is Harry who speaks and Hermione watches in utter amazement at the lack of hostility in his countenance. After all, it’d been Harry who was so eager to claim that Draco Malfoy had been marked last summer and was actively working with Voldemort.

Draco blinks, uncertainty painting the angular planes of his face. “You are?”

“Harry’s right,” Remus steps in before Harry can reply and his scarred face takes on a solemn expression. “What do you know about Horcruxes?”

“Horcruxes?”

“Horcruxes,” Remus confirms. “With you identifying Sirius’ brother, we have managed to get our hands on one.”

“What’s a Horcrux?”

“It’s a piece of Voldemort’s soul,” 

Draco blanches. “His _soul?_ ” He begins frantically twisting the silver signet ring on his finger as he leans as far away as possible from the locket. “What do you mean it’s a piece of his soul?” his voice starts to get a little high-pitched. “The lot of you are barking!"

Hermione chews on her lower lip, noticing how Ron is refusing to participate in the conversation or even look at anyone. “It’s how he keeps coming back,” she explains evenly. “He splits his soul and stores them in objects. That way, if any harm comes to his physical body, he’ll be able to return. In short, he’s practically immortal.”

Draco’s already pale complexion takes on a sickly shade. “Immortal?” he repeats flatly, “How does he split his…his soul?” he chokes out.

Tonks exhales. “Murder. It’s an unnatural act, a crime against humanity itself.”

The blond Slytherin faces Harry. “So if you managed to get rid of the Dark Lord this time, he can come back?” 

“Yes. That’s how he managed to return this time.”

“Fuck,” Draco breathes out and rubs his hands over his face and abruptly yells, “Fuck! Mother-buggering-fucking hell!” He jerks his head up, blond hair falling into his eyes as he looks up, his grey eyes wide with panic. “Wait, you said ‘objects’,” he directs accusingly towards her and Hermione nods slowly. “How many?”

“Malfoy,” Harry begins cautiously.

“No! Tell me! How many?” Draco demands, slamming his palms down on the table.

“Six,” she says softly.

“ _Six?_ He split his soul six times?”

“Hope’s not lost yet,” Tonks adds reassuringly. “These Horcruxes can be destroyed.” 

“Dora’s right. We have destroyed two and with your help,” Remus’ gaze flicks to the necklace, “we have obtained the third. That’s half.”

“So why can’t you destroy this one instead of simply staring and looking at it?”

“Draco, we can’t,” Hermione admits as his wild eyes swing towards her. “We don’t know how.”

“What?” He frowns and his mouth twists. “But-but you just said you did!”

“The diary your father slipped to Ginny Weasley about four years ago was destroyed with the fang of a basilisk. Its fang was coated in its venom and the ring,” she says hesitantly. “The ring was—”

“Dumbledore destroyed it,” Ron spits, finally entering the conversation, his blue eyes flashing. “He destroyed the ring and you helped kill him!”

“Ronald!”

“Ron, for the last time, it is Snape who has killed Dumbledore at the man’s bequest! His hand was cursed from the ring and he would’ve died anyway!” Remus says firmly and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Plus, what’s done is done. There isn’t any point in pointing fingers when we all have to work together to bring Voldemort down.”

“Whatever,” the redhead sneers and shoves his chair back. “The way I see it, you’re all just blindly trusting a Death Eater with vital information!” With that, he stomps out of the kitchen and somewhere, the distant crack of Apparition echoes around Grimmauld Place.

The atmosphere shifts and everyone averts their face away from the blond who merely stares blankly at the table. 

It is Tonks who breaks the silence with a low whistle and a shake of her head. “Well, that went well. I thought there would be punches thrown.” She curls her hands into fists and mimes boxing someone in the air.

Harry sighs and glances at her. “Never mind Ron, he’ll come around.” He pushes his glasses up and looks at Draco. “To answer you, we don’t have basilisk venom. To get more, we would have to go back to Hogwarts and right now, that is out of the question, what with Death Eaters there.”

Hermione shifts at the look on Draco’s face and turns to the rest. “I’ll do my best to keep searching. It’s just...the topic of Horcruxes itself is obscure and I don’t have a copy of _Secrets of the Darkest Arts._ ”

“We don’t blame you, Hermione,” Remus smiles. “We know you’re doing your best. However,” he eyes Draco for a minute. “Harry and I were thinking is it possible that Lord Voldemort could have a Horcrux kept with him at all times?”

Draco draws back. “What makes you think I would know something like that?”

“He has been a houseguest of yours for quite some time, hasn’t he? Could you recall anything?” Harry presses. “Come on, Malfoy, this is important. _Think._ ”

“I know it’s important, Potter,” Draco snaps. “The last thing I want is You-Know-Who to be bloody immortal and for me to be in hiding for the rest of my life!” His glare withers and he leans back, head tilted up to focus unseeingly at the ceiling. “What exactly would a Horcrux look like?”

“That’s the thing,” Harry sighs. “It could be anything.”

Draco remains silent and he closes his eyes as he rocks his chair back, balancing the furniture on just its hind legs. As he furrows his brows, Hermione studies his profile, lingering on the way his eyes move under their lids, the way a muscle in his cheek twitches as he clenches his jaw and down to the column of his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, opening his eyes. “I don’t think there is. But he has that stupid snake with him at all times.”

“Snake?” Remus lights up. “Harry, could a Horcrux be a living creature?”

“I don’t know,” The-Boy-Who-Lived answers slowly, wrinkling his nose in thought. “Maybe? No, I really wouldn’t know, Remus,” he admits uncertainly. “Malfoy, are you sure there’s nothing else? Some flashy trinket? Some item he’s terribly and insanely protective of? Or some odd detail?” 

“You’re the one who claims to have seen him in your head, shouldn’t _you_ know?” Draco snarks but presses his index fingers to his temple. “There is nothing like that,” he finally says. “I can’t recall anything of that nature. And if he did have one, I wasn’t aware of it.”

Everyone lets out a collective sigh of disappointment and Hermione silently resigns herself to burning the midnight oil for the foreseeable future. She has to find a solution. Everyone is counting on her and she wouldn’t put it past Harry or Ron to wear the damn Horcrux if they thought there isn’t any other way.

“Though…” Draco trails off, his eyes distant. 

“What?” she turns and demands.

“There was this rule he had.” He shakes his head. “The Dark Lord always encouraged his followers to be well-learned in the Dark Arts. There were times he would reward his best followers by sharing what he knew with them.”

“And?” Harry’s green eyes are sharp as he scoots closer.

“There was this meeting and someone—Dolohov or Rookwood, I don’t know—asked about learning how to wield and control Fiendfyre. The Dark Lord went mental and laid out this ban on casting that spell unless he approved it.”

“Fiendfyre?” Remus strokes his chin. “Yes,” he breathes out, nodding. “That could be it.”

“But Remus,” Tonks frowns. “Fiendfyre is unpredictable and nearly unstoppable. Without someone who has mastered it, we’re sorta stuck in the same boat.”

“Yes, but now we know another potential way to eradicate Voldemort’s Horcruxes!” Harry rises to his feet and begins to gesture wildly. “And with what Malfoy has shared, there really could be a Horcrux with him this whole time, hence, his reluctance for anyone to wield Fiendfyre!”

“But that’s just speculation,” Draco argues. “It could all be a coincidence!”

“No.” Harry shakes his head with grim determination. “I know it. I have a hunch we’re in the right direction. Voldemort has one of the remaining Horcruxes with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is totally unedited and I've only done one read-through because I was in a rush to post this because I know I'm _late_ and I apologise so much for that! 
> 
> I would love and perhaps die to hear what you guys think because there are times I feel the characters are portrayed a little OOC? Idk. But as always, reviews are always welcomed! Anyway, enough of my rambling, enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

From the way the temperatures have fallen and how the leaves turn from red to brown and eventually being one shrivelled mess on the ground, winter has come. With it brings the Christmas decorations placed around the Muggle street that Grimmauld Place is situated on. With wreaths hung on doors, fairy lights wrapped around lamp posts, and the sight of Muggles gathering together with joy and laughter on their faces, the Muggle world moves toward the new season as though nothing is amiss.

More than once, Hermione catches herself staring wistfully out of the window, taking note of the holiday season that doesn’t touch the war-torn Wizarding World.

Things will be different this year. 

In fact, she knows things are different.

For one, except for Molly serving up mince pies and freshly-baked biscuits along with steaming cups of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, no one bothers with any Yule traditions or decorations. The despair and gloom that Voldemort’s reign of terror brings nothing but weary citizens who hide behind their doors and keep their eyes to the ground.

Hermione can hardly blame anyone. Not when the smuggled copies of Muggle newspapers are full of front-page articles about the rising death toll of people who die mysteriously. Or when _Potterwatch_ reports the names of witches and wizards who are missing—people who all are known supporters of Harry Potter and the Order. 

But most of all, her parents are gone. Richard and Jean Granger are no more and the sheer knowledge of that brings an ache to her heart and bones that hurt longer the days come and go.

There will no longer be any sugar-free cookies or her father’s special eggnog recipe. No more Christmas trees set up near the fireplace with homemade tree ornaments. No more crazy knitted green jumpers that shed glitter. No more Muggle Christmas songs or carols blasting on the radio while her father hums along out of tune, making her mum laugh. No more of her mother burning the food in the oven and her father jokingly claiming its a miracle that they won’t succumb to food poisoning because Jean Granger is certainly not gifted in the culinary arts. However, what hurts the most is that Hermione no longer exists in the memories of her parents.

She’s basically an orphan now.

But the hole in her heart is marginally soothed and her resolve strengthens the more she reads about Muggles being discovered dead in their homes. 

It reminds her of the fate she’s saving her parents from—of a painful death and hours of torture because of who their daughter is.

Still, it isn’t easy. Not with Christmas approaching. It sends her into bed with the covers drawn over her, tears leaking from her eyes as she buries her face into the pillow, mourning her parents and reliving the memories she has of them.

Inhaling shakily, she brushes away the salty liquid clinging to her lashes and forces her gaze to remain on the yellowed pages of the book in her grasp. There isn’t time for tears, she tells herself. What’s important now is locating the remaining Horcruxes and bringing down Voldemort. And if things do turn out in their favour, she can be reunited with her parents. Even though the risk of them not remembering her is high.

Steadily, she continues reading about Helga Hufflepuff and when she’s done, Hermione writes down the gold cup as another Horcrux with more certainty than ever. This should be easy. Hufflepuff’s descendants are still alive and with some Polyjuice and perhaps a few Confundus, getting the information about the cup would be a cinch. Leaving her notes at the edge of the table, she slumps back against her chair and watches the dreary weather through the floor-length window, her mind lingering on her friends who are presently on some reconnaissance mission near the Ministry and Hogwarts.

Thinking about Hogwarts reminds her about Dumbledore leaving the Sword of Gryffindor for Harry in the wake of his death. Could the now-deceased wizard be hinting the famed sword is a Horcrux? No, Hermione decides. After all, the sword had been able to destroy the diary and she doesn’t think Horcruxes could be used to destroy each other especially when they hold fragments of the same soul.

And yet, why the Sword? Hermione frowns and rubs her temples agitatedly. Something about the whole thing just rubs her wrong. There must be a reason why Dumbledore wanted Harry to have the Sword. Her instincts have not guided her wrong once. Her suspicions about the symbol in the pages of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ has led her to the Deathly Hallows and she, along with Harry and Ron do think that Voldemort intends to pursue all three relics.

She’s managed to grab a book about Godric Gryffindor when Draco makes an appearance. Hermione doesn’t even manage a greeting when he tosses a familiar book with a pink cover in her direction. Not one who is ever picked first for any Muggle games back in primary school, she fumbles to catch it and when she does, she tosses a glare at the blond who merely smirks at her.

“You’re the one who took my book?” she says aghast when she recognises the novel.

He ignores her question. “What the ever-loving-fuck is that tripe?”

Hermione can only stare at him. The fact he’d voluntarily read a Muggle book sends her reeling. The very idea that Draco Malfoy has read _Romeo and Juliet_ cause her to blink and for her mouth to fall open. “You read it? Every page?”

“Yes,” he scoffs. “Salazar strike me. It’s fucking ridiculous and I never took you for being so maudlin. But then again, with Weasel around, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Draco’s chin juts disdainfully as he leans against a bookshelf and crosses his arms.

“You really read it,” she breathes out in disbelief.

“Yes,” he deadpans. “So?”

She licks her lower lip. “It’s a Muggle book.”

His face becomes carefully blank. “I know that.”

Deciding that it wouldn’t be wise to prod further, she brushes it aside and raises her brows. “So… what do you think?”

“Were you not listening, Granger? It’s fucking stupid! I shouldn’t have expected much coming from someone who worships _Hogwarts: A History.”_

She snorts and scowls. “I don’t worship it,” she says mulishly, ignoring the fact it’s the only book she’s reread at least ten times. Or maybe twenty. Glaring at Draco’s knowing grin, she hugs her book to her chest. “I don’t!” she insists. “Now wipe that smarmy smirk off your pointy git face!” 

“Touched a nerve, didn’t I?” he mocks.

“Malfoy!”

“I thought I’m _Draco_ now?”

Her cheeks flush and she shifts on her feet. “Yes, but it isn’t fair that I use your first name when you don’t call me by mine.”

He rolls his eyes and slinks closer. “You’ll always be Granger to me.”

She bristles and withdraws a little. “Then you’re going to be Ferret in my dictionary!”

“I always knew you were a swot,” he says with a tilt of his head. “But I didn’t know you read the dictionary either. What’s next? The thesaurus?”

“Draco Malfoy!”

“Watch it, Granger, any louder and people would think we’re up to no good.”

Hermione furrows her brows. “Up to no good? W-what are you talking about—” Her cheeks redden and her face feels terribly hot. Somehow, she can’t quite meet his half-lidded gaze. “Draco Malfoy, you...you...argh! You sodding ferrety albino git!” she hisses and begins hitting him in the arm with her book. Shakespeare be damned. She has a Pureblood to hit. And maybe, just maybe, she might be able to ignore the way her gut clenches in that peculiar fashion.

“Ow, watch it! Granger! Stop it! For Salazar’s sake, that hurts!”

She stops, blowing a loose curl away from her face. Hermione glares, willing the redness of her face to go _away._ “You’re such a...such a...a… a _boy!”_

A dark blond eyebrow is raised. “Your half-troll friends are boys.” 

She purses her lips, narrowing her eyes. “I told you not to call Harry and Ron names—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Draco waves her protests away with a regal sweep of his hand. “I can’t call Pothead and Weasel anything but I don’t think it’s fair considering the Ginger Growth keeps hissing at me as though he’s a Parseltongue. Anyway, back to the main point—”

“There’s a main point?”

“Don’t interrupt, Granger, it’s rude.”

She purses her lips and resists the urge to punch him in the arm. Or give him another smack in the face, but with her book this time. “Alright, fine.”

“The point is,” he stresses, “that you have shitty crap taste in books.”

Her mouth falls open. “I do not!” 

“Do too.” 

“Do not!”

“Granger,” he starts. “Do. Too.”

“DO NOT!”

Draco scoffs and grabs her book. “Then what in Salazar’s arse is this?”

“Literature.” She sniffs and lifts her chin. “It’s considered a classic. The author, Shakespeare, is considered to be one of the greatest literary geniuses that ever existed. But if you can’t recognise that, well.” Her gaze lowers to give him a quick once-over. “I’m not surprised.” 

“Now, wait a damn bloody minute.” Draco holds up the book and waves it in front of her face. “You’re fucking kidding with me,” he snaps. “Both of them committed suicide due to miscommunication and missed chances. Why the fuck would you even bother with something that has a shite ending like this?”

Hermione meets his eyes evenly. “Because the whole story is so much more than its ending. It’s important that in any world we live in, we don’t let prejudice and hate rule our lives, to dictate our decisions. Because if we do, there will be consequences. And it is always the innocents who get hurt.”

Draco is quiet, his gaze drops and he turns his head away. The silence that permeates the library is stark. It is so quiet that it feels like a tomb. Looking at him, she sees the tension in his jawline and the twitching muscle under his eye and Hermione knows she’s struck a chord. She ducks her head and gently retrieves her book from his white-knuckled grip at his side. 

“Draco,” she begins softly and upon seeing the thunderous storm in his grey eyes, she backpedals and hands him the other book she’s managed to find before his arrival. “Here, if you’re so bored that you’re reading Muggle books, help me with this.”

If he’s grateful for the change in topic, he doesn’t say or show it. 

“What’s this?” his voice rumbles. She notes that he sounds a little hoarse.

“It’s about Godric Gryffindor,” she says. “It could help against Voldemort.”

As expected, the blond Slytherin flinches and slowly takes the history book from her. “Oh. What, um. What am I supposed to look out for?”

She studies him carefully, observing the way his eyes immediately shift away from hers and how pained he seems. “Draco, what’s wrong?”

He swallows. “Unknowingly helping you to bring down the Dark Lord is one thing, Granger. Actively seeking out ways to do so is entirely another matter.”

“What? What are you saying?”

His gaze is dark. “Don’t play dumb, Granger. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But-but you’ve been such great help!” she protests, peering desperately up at him. “You know things that non-traditional wizards and witches don’t—why don’t you want to help?”

“Look.” His tone is sharp and the way he holds himself is almost defensive. Alarm bells begin ringing in her head and warily, Hermione takes a small step back. “You don’t know what it’s like to have _him_ in your house. You don’t know the things I’ve seen him do, the things he makes people do.”

“And so what?” she demands, frustration bleeding into her tone. “Doesn’t that make you want to stop him?”

“You’re not listening, Granger!” he snaps and jerks away from her. Draco starts pacing, running a hand through his hair, tousling up the blond strands until they stick up haphazardly. “I fully agree that You-Know-Who has to be stopped. More than anything, I want him to be vanquished by Saint Potter and to be out of my fucking house and life for good!”

“So what’s stopping you?” she cries out but seeing the way he trembles and how he clutches the Dark Mark over the black sweater he has on, she gets her answer. “You’re afraid.” 

Immediately, the fight and anger and the frustration leave her. As Hermione looks at him, she wants to reach out, to reassure him that there isn’t anything to be afraid of, to remind him that he isn’t the only one living in fear and that he isn’t alone.

But she knows those are empty words. She understands that there are plenty of things to fear. By Godric, she does. Being a Muggleborn _and_ Harry Potter’s best friend paints a huge target on her back and no matter what she does, that bullseye can never come off. She may not have knowledge or memories of Voldemort and the torture and death he leaves in his wake, but she’s afraid too.

However, unlike Draco. She doesn't have a choice. She can’t sit on the sidelines when her friends are going to war or when people like her are hunted and discriminated against just for being born. Hermione knows how her future will turn out if Voldemort wins; it wouldn’t be a pretty one. In fact, she will consider herself lucky if she’s killed in battle.

“You know it’s okay to be afraid.” Hermione chews on her bottom lip and Draco makes a noise that seems to be a mix of a disbelieving grunt and a derisive snort. Sighing, she looks up, her mouth settling into a grim line. “At least you have a choice. A choice that I don’t. We both know the horrors I will face if we fail.”

Draco turns white and his eyes flutter shut as though he’s in agony.

Without a word, she takes the book about Gryffindor back from him and leaves.

* * * * *

She’s getting ready for bed when a knock sounds on her door.

Frowning because it’s close to one in the morning, she pads over to the door and swings it open. The sight of Draco startles her and Hermione takes a step back. She swallows and adjusts the angle of the door to partially block his view of her room. She doesn’t want to risk the chance of him seeing something embarrassing. 

“Draco,” she greets cautiously, ever aware of his half-lidded gaze trained on her face. “Is there, um—Do you need something?”

The fact that this is probably the first time he’s come looking for her in a room that isn’t shared by others causes her cheeks to grow a little hot and Hermione finds herself unable to completely meet his searing gaze. What does it mean when he brings out such feelings and causes her to be all fluttery and unsure?

Eyes lowered, she takes in the lean lines of his sleeping trousers that bunch up at his ankles, the black cotton shirt he has on that highlights his pale countenance, drawing her attention to the broad planes of his chest. Noting the short sleeves of his top, her gaze drifts down to his left arm. For once, his Mark is exposed and Hermione doesn’t miss the opportunity to look at it. Whether he’s forgotten or left it as it is by design will forever be a mystery.

When she finally gathers the tatters of her Gryffindor courage and looks up, she realises his focus has drifted downwards. Down to the red oversized tee that hangs loosely on her frame. Down to the well-worn cotton shorts that expose the length of her legs to his gaze. Her mouth goes dry. Belatedly, she notices the neckline of her shirt has slipped down to the right, baring her shoulder. Cheeks darkening, she hastily tugs it up and glances back up to find his eyes are back on hers. 

With a flash of heat racing down her spine, she’s acutely aware of the proximity of their bodies, of the scorching intensity of his gaze—his dark grey irises are merely thin rings around his pupils—and more importantly, how the tables seemed to have turned with her being the prey, and he, the predator. She feels exposed— _vulnerable._

The heat of his stare through half-lidded eyes burns through her and brings images of rustled sheets and that damn grey blanket of his and—Good Godric, why isn’t he saying anything? The layered silence between them that grows heavier by the minute causes her to shift uneasily in her spot. She wants him to break the quiet, to mutter something stupid and witty. She wants him to step closer so that she can smell that light hint of sandalwood and musk that is uniquely him. She wants him to turn on his heel and go back to his room so that they can ignore this burgeoning crackling of tension. Or does she? Hermione’s mouth tightens at that. Merlin, maybe she _doesn’t_ even know what she wants.

“Earlier, the book—pass it to me.” His voice sounds oddly thick and strangled to her ears. And the way he’s looking at her isn’t helping. 

“Why?” she asks, tone soft and hesitant and so fucking unsure and she wills herself to meet his gaze evenly. “You didn’t want it.”

Her eyes drop to Adam’s apple of his throat when he swallows.

“Yeah, but now I do.”

She raises a brow. “Why?”

“I need something boring to read before sleeping.”

Hermione scoffs and crosses her arms. Now that is the stupidest answer she’s ever heard him give and she’s attended school and shared classes with the prat for six years. The bud of intimate tension in her spine has faded and is replaced with something that feels like bone-deep exhaustion. “Stop it,” she says tiredly.

“What?”

“Stop it,” she repeats clearly. “Enough with the false excuses and stupid reasonings and feigned nonchalance. Just…” she sighs and purses her lips. “Just say what you really mean. And if you can’t—At least… just tell them to me.”

Draco stares at her, his jaw clenching.

She allows their eyes to meet evenly. This isn’t the Slytherin dungeons where knives can be shoved into shoulder blades at any moment. She understands the intricate politics in the snake pit. But she’s not one of them and never will be. And if Draco can’t even be honest about his intentions with her—the one person she knows he interacts the most with now—what exactly is the point of him seeking her out? Temporary companionship to his boredom? Something to amuse himself with?

With the glaciers getting stronger in the narrow width of his gaze, she averts her face and is more than ready to give him a brusque goodbye when he speaks.

“I’m already a traitor and from Snape’s intel, there’s a kill order on my head. So…go big or go home, right?” he says flatly, his face impassive as always. Or at least to others. But being Hermione Granger, she has the privilege of looking at him, of knowing his various expressions through his eyes.

Only Draco sodding Malfoy would talk about fully betraying Voldemort that way. 

Wordlessly, she swings the door wider and delves back into her room to snatch the book from her bedside table. Hermione knows that’s the best answer she can receive from him. Before that, she fully expects him to sneer and curl his lip and to rudely inform her that whatever he wants to do, it’s none of her business. Sure, she may understand (from Snape of all people) that Slytherins are a different breed but there must surely be a limit to that sort of compromise and tolerance. It has to go two ways.

“Here.” She offers the book and for a beat, Draco watches her before taking it. Eyes roving over her face, scanning for some sign or feature, his slim elegant fingers grasp the edges of the tome and to Hermione, it feels like a peace offering—another form of an olive branch.

But the hesitancy in his manner and the way he lingers after speaks volumes. Patiently, she waits and the harsh lines on his face gradually disappear. He peers down at her and his mouth twists. “If I read this, will I turn into someone who attempts stupid heroic deeds while developing the urge to wear red?”

“No!” Hermione huffs and at once, the gnarled knots connecting them untangles and helps ease the way she holds herself. If she’s the person she was before knowing him, she might have given some pointed remark about him being too cowardly to do the right thing. But as soon as that insult comes to mind, she banishes it. “And it’s not as though the colour red will look good on your pasty git face,” she adds loftily.

“Been thinking about my ‘pasty git face’, then?”

She flushes at the cocky lilt to his tone and the knowing gleam in his eyes. “As if,” she snaps and scowls at him. “I’d sooner think of Cormac McLaggen doing the Highland Reel with Professor McGonagall!”

In hindsight, that may not be the smartest comeback she could have given, judging by the smirk on Draco’s face. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Granger. But if I were to do the Reel, would you think of me—”

“Goodnight!” she hisses and closes the door firmly, immediately leaning her back against the wall. In the hallway, she can hear Draco’s muffled snort and his confident retreating steps.

And as she tucks herself into bed, she fights the urge to hide her flaming cheeks with her palms.

* * * * *

Watching Draco Malfoy read is utterly fascinating, Hermione realises and not for the first time, she sneaks a glance in his direction.

Peering at him over the pages of her book and watching him might be a little creepy, but she can’t help it. The stoic blond is terribly and unusually expressive when it comes to her favourite hobby and it’s as though she’s seeing a whole new side to him. Sure, she might have come across him reading in the library back at Hogwarts, but things were different then. Their dynamics have shifted. Even more so after last night’s encounter. 

When she closes her eyes, the image of Draco Malfoy looking at her with that heated gaze is seared into the four corners of her brain.

Something like embarrassment has settled in her gut when she woke earlier but Hermione forces it aside. There’s nothing. Absolutely _nothing_ going on. 

Regardless, Hermione can’t tear her eyes away from him now. The way his eyes move across the words and how his eyebrows knot when something puzzles him is captivating. Her gaze drifts to the rhythmic manner of his index finger tapping against the rigid leather corner edge and how riveted he seems by the material. Plus, it isn’t fair how easy he’s assimilated back to their comfortable bubble with zero thought of their... _disagreement_ yesterday.

She, on the other hand, is entirely too fidgety and anxious about saying the wrong thing. She doesn’t want to break this _thing_ with him and go back to being barely civil to each other. It surprises her but she likes talking to him. Bantering comes easy and whatever argument they have isn’t the hurtful sort where both parties have the intention to inflict the most pain on the other. And yes, she loves her best friends but neither Harry nor Ron have the patience or interest in the things she does. But with Draco— 

Abruptly, she blinks and startles when she realises his winter grey eyes are boring right through her. “What are you looking at, Granger?”

Hermione isn’t aware she’s been that obvious with her staring. She sighs and perhaps, for the umpteenth time— “I thought I told you to call me, Hermione.”

“Not going to happen, _Granger,_ ” he drawls insolently and lifts an eyebrow in challenge.

“That’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair. I thought you would know that by now.”

Rolling her eyes because that’s probably the only response she can give to that, she changes the subject. She’s getting good at that. “Have you found anything about Gryffindor?”

“Other than the daring and courageous attempt to rescue a group of children from twenty dragons while battling Dementors without a wand? No.”

“That did not happen!” Hermione sits up and retorts incredulously. “You’re making that up!”

Indignantly, the blond Slytherin waves the book she’s handed him the night before tauntingly in the air. “It is according to this!”

“Oh, give that to me!”

“Hey! Hands off! I was reading that!”

“Not anymore you’re not when you’re making things up—Oh…” she trails off when she finds out Draco _is_ right. Merlin help her. There are even illustrations about this supposed famed deed. Hermione doubts even Dumbledore could pull off this extraordinary feat and he’s been claimed to be one of the greatest wizards that ever lived. Wrinkling her nose, she begins to question the accuracy of this book before snapping the pages back together.

“Told you so.”

She shoots him a withering glower from under her lashes.

Unable to take a hint or he prefers to needle her, Draco slouches inelegantly and runs a hand through his hair. “Why couldn’t you give me another book to read instead of your gaudy Founder who so valiantly slays dragons and performs death-defying—”

“Maybe it’s punishment for you being an insufferable prat,” she snarks back.

“An insufferable prat? I thought _you’re_ the insufferable know-it-all.”

She sniffs, unwilling to deign him with an answer but the taunting face he makes causes her to react. “Well, yes. What a pair we make,” she mocks. “The Prat and the Know-It-All.”

Draco rolls his eyes and her glare deepens when she notes how he makes that look regal and insouciant all at once. “Anyway, back to my question. Why couldn’t you give me something else? Like maybe a book about that soul thing.”

“It’s called a Horcrux,” she corrects automatically and furrows her brows. “Unfortunately, that subject matter is considered too Dark that it’s only mentioned in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and believe it or not, I don’t have a copy of that.”

“That’s convenient for the Dark Lord,” he sneers disparagingly.

Silently, she agrees with him and she sets the tome about Gryffindor down on her lap. The topic of Horcruxes has just reminded her about a question she’s been meaning to ask. “Draco, may I ask you something?”

He looks up, his mouth curving. “You may, but it doesn’t mean I’ll give you an answer.”

How positively predictable. She resists the urge to hex him with a stinging spell.

“That day,” she begins hesitantly, wondering if she’ll be crossing some unknown line in the sand. “Why did you seem so shocked about Horcruxes? You looked like you were about to be sick everywhere. Harry even said it’s amazing that you became whiter than you already are.”

He snorts and sits up straighter. His angular face loses all trace of amusement and he becomes uncommonly solemn. “Growing up in one of the more traditional Pureblood Houses, I was taught that one’s soul is to be revered and certainly not to be tampered with. It’s something to be treated with respect and not taken lightly.”

She leans closer, attention already captured by this small peek into Wizarding customs and traditions. It’s simply a shame that Hogwarts didn’t have a curriculum on things like this for Muggleborns.

“Essentially, the soul is the essence of a witch or a wizard. It’s what ties someone to the magical world and you can say it’s the only link between the physical world and the world beyond Death. Hence, why Unbreakable Vows are so dangerous and are to be used with caution—it ties the promise made to your soul itself.”

“So that’s why failure to keep your word on the vow made leads to death,” she breathes out in wonder.

Draco nods. “Yes. There are also older, more traditional marriage vows that bond both participants’ souls to each other. Of course, the Ministry doesn’t encourage the usage of such bonds anymore considering when one dies, the other soon follows within minutes.”

Hermione blinks, eyes widening at all of this. Always eager to know more about this whole new world she’s entered at age eleven, she finds everything that Draco is sharing awfully fascinating. She’s never heard about them before. Even the Weasleys who are Purebloods may not know of such things considering the more liberal path they’ve taken. Mentally, she makes a note to look everything up once Voldemort is defeated and the war ends. 

“There are more of course, but only the hardline Pureblood families know about such things now. Like the Blacks, the Malfoys and the Notts.” Draco is contemplative as he rests his forearms on his thighs to clasp his hands together.

“There are things like bonding magic too, right?” she can’t help but ask. 

He nods. “But first, the involved souls would have to go through a compatibility test because there’s no going back once the bond is put in place.”

“And hearing Voldemort rip his soul into seven pieces…” she trails off and Draco visibly winces. “That’s the reason why you looked ready to retch all over.”

“Yes,” he admits, looking pained. “The act itself goes against our beliefs and it’s practically an insult. If you wanted to know more, you could ask my mother. She knows about almost everything there is to—”

“Hermione is not going anywhere near your bigot of a mother!”

Heart jumping in her chest, she whirls around at the sight of Ron standing at the doorway, red-faced and glaring at the blond. She darts her gaze back to Draco and observes with a pang of disappointment that his cold and aloof facade is back. Gone are the easy way he speaks and the openness of his posture. This Draco reminds her of the horrid bully he was back in their younger years.

To his credit, Draco says nothing but how he eyes the redhead is full of contempt and utter loathing.

“Ron, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Harry?” she questions a little crossly at her best friend’s unnecessary antagonistic tone.

“I am,” he snaps impatiently and steps further into the room reluctantly, eyes still glaring at his childhood nemesis. “Harry saw something and told me to come and get you.” He makes a gesture with his hands for her to follow him out.

“Oh.” She shoots an apologetic glance in Draco’s way and rises to her feet.

Once they are out, Ron frowns but the harsh look in his eyes has faded. “What’re you doing with him anyway? Was he pulling his usual Pureblood crap again?”

“Ron,” she says firmly. “He’s not like that anymore—”

“Sure,” he interrupts, snorting. “And I’m Helga Hufflepuff. The next thing you’re going to say is that you like the ferret hanging around you like a bloody ghost!”

She glances away and chooses not to react. That’s something she hasn’t even figured out yet. The thought of liking Draco Malfoy being around… 

“People change,” she says instead. “If you can’t trust him, then trust me.”

Her best friend sighs. “I do trust you.” He looks up, bright blue eyes wide and pleading. “But ‘Mione, it’s him I can’t trust you with.” 

Hermione presses her lips together, fighting the urge to fidget or shy away from Ron’s touch. His hands are on her shoulders, his hold gentle but firm and with how he’s looking down at her, her gut twists. 

“Ron, you don’t have to like him,” she starts cautiously, slowly inching back and managing to shrug off his hands as she feigns tugging and smoothing her shirt. “But what’s important now is stopping Voldemort and if Draco knows things that—”

_“Draco?!”_

It’s only when Ron bellows that she realises her error. Slowly, she closes her eyes and waits for the deafening outburst. 

She is not disappointed.

“What? Since when have you and that vile pointy git are on a first-name basis?” The redhead sneers accusingly, eyes narrowed as he towers over her. And Hermione remembers that while Ron is an incredible friend to have and she’s honoured to be one of his best mates, there are aspects about him that she doesn’t like

Namely, his temper. 

“He’s a...friend,” she answers lamely, feeling attacked when Ron’s face turns into an ugly shade of red. 

_“A friend?”_ he mocks.

“ _Ron,_ ” she grits her teeth and is about to jab her index finger indignantly into his chest when Harry appears from the kitchen. Mildly thankful for the interruption that is her poor bespectacled friend who always seems to be caught in the middle, Hermione schools her irritation back and offers a warm smile to him. “Harry, what is it? Ron told me you saw something. Is it another Horcrux?”

“No, uh, I,” Harry stammers, looking pale and withdrawn. “It’s about him trying to find something.”

“Harry?” she presses gently. “What did you see?”

“He killed someone!” The-Boy-Who-Lived exclaimed. “He tortured someone and when he didn’t get the answers he needed, he killed him!”

Hermione chews her lower lip, knowing that the Killing Curse is still a sore spot for her best friend, considering how Sirius had died less than two years ago.

“Mate,” Ron reaches out, clearly knowing where his friend’s mind is on too. “That’s why we need to know what you saw.” 

Harry takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and exhales slowly. “He was looking for something important—something powerful and the man he was interrogating didn’t have what he wanted. Said that someone else stole it.”

“Who is it?”

Harry scrunches up his nose. “Someone called Grerovitch? Grogorvitch?”

“Do you mean Dragomir Gorgovitch?” Ron pipes up excitedly. At the blank looks sent by him from Hermione and Harry, he rushes to explain. “He’s a Chaser! Y’know, for the Cannons!”

Hermione rolls her eyes. Quidditch. Merlin help her. It’s as though she’ll never get a break from that dreaded sport.

“Ronald!” she snaps. “Not everything is about Quidditch!”

“How would you know?” he retorts. “Not everything can be found in those damning books of yours!”

She glares and turns away with a huff. “What’s this item that Voldemort wants?” she asks. There has to be a logical explanation, she knows this. It certainly can’t include a quidditch player from Ron’s favourite team, she thinks sourly.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I haven’t a clue. Though he doesn’t sound like he’s from around here.”

Chewing her lower lip, she darts a wary glance in Ron’s direction. A look the redhead completely misses as he’s avoiding her. “There is someone we can ask?”

“Malfoy?”

“ _Malfoy?!”_

She flushes at the looks thrown at her but to her surprise, Harry nods thoughtfully and rubs the infamous faded scar on his forehead. “Yeah, why not?”

“Harry!” Ron all but growls, shooting a look of betrayal towards the black-haired boy. “You can’t be serious!”

“Great!” she says a tad too cheerily, not wanting to get into an argument with Ron about Draco’s role in this—or anything, actually. She hates fighting with him. They shouldn’t even be participating in something as silly as a quarrel, especially not with everything going on. Unfortunately, Hermione has pride and she’s unwilling to apologise for something wrong that she hasn’t even done.

It reminds her of the Crookshanks versus Scabbers incident in their Third Year.

Turning a blind eye to Ron’s discordant muttered ramblings, she leads the way back to the library. There, she is met with the same sight of Draco lounging comfortably in the same spot she’s left him in. Except, the book about Gryffindor is back in his hands.

“I thought you didn’t want to read that in fear you might become Robin Hood,” she blurts out.

Draco frowns and lifts a pale brow quizzically. “What? Who’s Robin Hood?”

“A fictional Muggle character who’s known for wearing the colour red,” she mutters.

The Malfoy heir screws up his nose in disgust. “Anyway, I thought I could try reading this again and maybe if you could just tell me what I’m supposed to look out for—” Abruptly, his gaze shifts away from her face, narrowing at the sight of her friends who must have appeared behind her at the doorway. “Oh, look.” His tone is dry and cutting. “It’s Scarhead and the Ginger Ape. What, have the both of you managed to find your brains? Because having the ability to read is a requirement before stepping into a library.”

“Draco!” she hisses. “Will you stop it!”

The blond doesn’t react and she fully expects a full out brawl to occur here and now, what with Ron bristling, face turning a shade she can only call puce and with his hands curled into fists at his sides.

However, Harry steps in calmly. Brushing away the dig, he merely meets the Slytherin's challenging gaze evenly. “Malfoy, do you know of anyone called Grogovitch?”

“What?”

“Gregovitch? Gorgovitch? I might have gotten the name wrong but can you think of anyone with that sort of name?”

Draco’s palpable confusion is real. “Do you mean Gregorovitch?”

From the way Harry’s piercing green eyes light up, Hermione knows they’ve struck the lottery. She isn’t _that_ petty to chance a glance at Ron. Though, she will fully admit the effort needed to resist gloating is hard.

“Yes! That’s the name!” He turns to her, beyond exhilarated. “That’s the name Voldemort used!”

“A wandmaker?” Draco asks, aghast. “What does the Dark Lord want with a continental wandmaker?”

Hermione sucks in a gulping breath and exchanges a knowing glance with the pair. Surely not, she thinks. This cannot be a coincidence. 

“Merlin’s saggy tits!” Ron gasps. “Hermione, you were right!”

“Right about what?” The blond demands carefully, grey eyes narrowed and wary as he flicks his gaze from Harry to Ron and back to her. “What is it? What’s the Dark Lord up to?”

“The Elder Wand,” she says softly. She looks up at him. “He’s looking for the Elder Wand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally managed to update today because things have been rough at work considering my boss just got fired, gosh. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this and as always, do let me know what you think because I'll die for your thoughts. I'll try to update this weekend as an early Christmas present for you guys being so wonderfully supportive and encouraging! 
> 
> Enjoy! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, folks! Here's the latest update for you wonderful lovelies!

With everything that’s going on, Christmas shopping isn’t exactly high on the list but with Molly determined to have some semblance of normality in their war-torn lives, there has been a steady stream of Christmas food stocked up in Grimmauld’s pantry.

Someone, perhaps Remus or even Arthur, has even managed to get a tree up. And while it may not have her family’s homemade ornaments and gold baubles, it helps to lighten the tension in her spine and ease the burden on her shoulders. The familiarity of it soothes her and while she may not have her parents with her, she knows that they’re safe and happy with their new identities. But most importantly, she has the memories of them alive in her heart.

Thanking Molly for the glasses of mulled cider and nicking two red velvet icing-coated biscuits, Hermione leaves the kitchen in search of Draco. Upon learning that Voldemort could have in his possession an unbeatable wand—the wand from a children’s story, Draco has been understandably freaked out and had delved into researching and reading up with even more fervour.

In fact, that’s how Hermione finds him in the drawing room (secretly, she calls it their room considering the days and nights spent there together). Back against the front of a green velvet stuffed chair, feet planted on the floor with his knees bent to support his wrists holding up Gryffindor’s book, Draco is a picture of comfort as he thumbs through the heavy antique tome.

“You’re still reading that?” she asks as she pads over to him. “I thought you were done with Gryffindorks and feared the contagious urge to wear red.”

Grey eyes slide towards her. “And yet, here I am talking to the swottiest of all Gryffindors,” he drawls lazily and sets the book face down and only shutting it properly when she levels a glare at him for further wrinkling the aged leather spine.

She scoffs and hands him a biscuit and a glass of cider.

He accepts it wordlessly but she can see the silent appreciation in those silver depths.

“It seems the Weasleys aren’t a useless family after all,” he says and devours the biscuit in two bites. 

Her nostrils flare. “Draco Malfoy, you take that back right now!” she barks and snatches back his glass. 

He eyes her and clearly seeing the indignant look on her face at the slight against the magical family who’ve wholeheartedly accepted her, he glances away. His tongue runs over his teeth and his jaw shifts. “Fine,” he grumbles. “They’re not _that_ bad,” he concedes and his eyes fly to hers. “Except for Weaselbee.”

Hermione narrows her gaze at the cocking of a pale eyebrow—an action that dares her to respond, which she chooses to ignore. 

A smirk graces his lips at her silence and he stretches a hand out for the glass in her hand.

“What do you have against them anyway?” she questions mulishly, her face losing a bit of the indignation as she settles opposite him. “And don’t say it’s because they’re blood traitors because you Malfoys are now firmly in that category too.”

Draco winces and presses his lips into a thin line.

“Well?” she prompts.

“I—” he cuts himself off and glares at her. “Will you just fucking butt out?”

When cornered, go for the throat. She recognises that as a tactic that all Slytherins seem to use when they’re backed into a corner.

Unfortunately for him, she isn’t done. Because Hermione has had it with his insults against the family of redheads who took her under their wings ever since she’s stepped into this new and terrifying world of magic at the age of eleven. “Is it because they’re poor? Have they been horrible to you? Or is it because your parents said it was beneath you to befriend any of them? Haven’t they welcomed you here when they had no reason to?”

Draco scowls and she knows that he can’t answer her because he didn’t have a legitimate reason to hate the Weasleys. Not anymore.

His mouth is set into a mulish line and the stubborn tilt to his jaw tells her she wouldn’t get any more headway with him—

“Fine, I don’t hate them,” he almost spits and she draws back in surprise. “But I doubt we’ll be anything more than alarmingly cordial. Not when one of their numerous relatives ran off with an ancestor’s bride.”

“What?”

“Cedrella Black and Septimus Weasley,” he sneers. “A Malfoy was betrothed to her until she ran off and got eloped. There, you wanted an answer and now you have it. Are you done?” 

She blinks. She hasn’t even been expecting a reason or a proper answer to her question, not with his infallible pride and stubbornness. But once again, Draco Malfoy proves her wrong and surprises her.

“Um, yes.”

“Speaking of Weasleys,” he starts and she’s almost impressed he’s resisted sneering or grimacing, though a small part of her is wary of the sly gleam of mischief in his half-lidded eyes. “Are you aware of what the Ginger Freckle harbours for you?”

She stiffens. “I really wish you wouldn’t call Ron names,” she says instead.

He hums and slides one of his legs out and leans back. “So you are aware.”

“It’s none of your business,” she snaps, cheeks flaming. “And I don’t know what you mean.”

The last thing Hermione wants is to discuss her hot-headed best friend who feels things for her with a boy who stirs up her emotions and messes with her brain. Morgana have mercy on her, but it’s even harder considering she still can’t quite put a label on this... _thing_ with Draco.

Not when she hasn’t decided how to deal with Ron.

Alright, maybe she does know how to deal with her redheaded friend, but she’s procrastinating. She doesn’t want to be the one who breaks his heart. Not with the war going on. Although, it has shown aspects of Ron’s personality that grate on her nerves. In the long run, she recognises a relationship with Ron would possibly bring out the worst in each other, leaving them too wrecked to repair a treasured friendship.

And that’s how she knows it won’t work out; her fear of losing Ron as a friend scares her more than a potential romantic partner.

“Let me guess, you and Weaselbee did something—” his face twists and he looks like he’s about to retch and try as she might, Hermione can’t help the snort that escapes from her mouth at the utter childishness, “—and predictably, he fucked up and—”

“No,” she interrupts and tucks an errant curl behind her ear. Her cheeks are warm at the inquisitive look Draco shoots her and a part of her wants to make up some lie and deny everything but she pauses. This could be an opportunity for her to figure things out—to draw a new line in the sand, to fix a blurred boundary. 

Or perhaps, to create a new one.

Her eyes flick up and the challenging way he lifts his chin and traces the circumference of his glass with the tip of his index finger causes that same familiar simmering heat to bloom in her gut.

This feels dangerous, she realises when she moves and her foot brushes against his outstretched trouser-clad shin. His eyes flash at the contact and from the neckline of his black jumper, his pale skin turns pink.

That same crackling energy from that night sizzles through the air.

It could be the way Draco looks at her or the warm spicy cider lowering her inhibitions. Whatever it is, Hermione feels like the bold daring lioness she’s meant to be—that she’d _been_ when she’d caged Rita Skeeter in a jar, led Umbridge to the centaurs and cursed Marietta Edgecombe when she’d snitched on the D.A. 

Her head lolls to the side as she regards him from under her lashes. 

Despite trying to appear nonchalant, she can tell he’s listening intently. It could be the magic in the air, the small contact of their legs, or even Molly’s mulled cider, but there’s no denying the creeping tension that’s charged with something _more_ than simple attraction.

“Granger, don’t bail on me. What did you mean by no?”

“I’m not with Ron,” she answers, her heart racing beneath her ribcage at the spark of interest in those stormy grey eyes. “I could have been, and I know we would’ve been happy, but,” she pauses and closes her eyes. This will be the first time she’s admitting this aloud and it isn’t as hard as she thought it will be. “The timing is all wrong; we keep missing each other and I think, in the long run, it wouldn’t work out.”

Draco shifts his jaw. “What’s wrong with now?”

She wrinkles her nose and fixes her gaze on the fir tree with its mismatched decorations in the corner. She likes the disorderliness of it. “Circumstances.” She takes another sip of her cider and the spicy taste and the cinnamon warms her bones. “We’ve grown up, adapted, changed. I… I don’t think we’re the same people we once were.”

At the lack of response, she settles her gaze back on him. “What, nothing to say? No taunts or smart remarks? You know, I’ve not told anyone any of that before. Not even Harry.”

He licks his lower lip and runs his hands through his hair. The light-coloured hair that is so fine that it looks like spun silver under the sun catches her attention and draws her attention to the gleaming signet ring on his finger.

She longs to study it. From the few times she's seen it, she’s noticed the swooping curled tails of the twin mirrored snakes with tiny emerald stones for eyes on the band, their serpentine heads facing what must be the Malfoy family crest in the centre and the elaborately carved M over it. She knows there’s the family motto on it too. She’s seen the small engraved words below the crest but she’s never had the opportunity to read it.

“I don’t know what you’ll like me to say.” His voice drags her attention back to him and she realises his tone is cautious, wary even, and somehow, that causes her chest to squeeze painfully.

Her shoulders slump and she forces her eyes down to her lap. Embarrassment fills her at the information she’s divulged. She feels raw, bare—vulnerable beyond belief. So much for thinking that there’s _something_ —

“Oh forget it,” she mutters, sinking lower in her chair and wishing a Death Eater would appear and Avada her in the next few seconds. She’s not felt the sting of humiliation this acutely before. Somewhere, a lock of her hair is caught on a button from the tufted chair and gingerly, she attempts to distract herself by focusing solely on untangling her hair.

“Granger, I—”

“Was there anything interesting in the book?” she interrupts coolly. She’s never been good with rejection.

Draco’s face falls and before she can react, his expression is smoothed back to his infamous icy impassiveness. He curls his leg back—away from her—and more notedly, the warmth in his gaze is gone. “Not really.” He picks up the book and slides it to her over the carpeted floor. “Though it’s so typical of Gryffindor to get a sword that absorbs strength whenever it makes contact with something stronger.”

Hermione almost wishes she hasn’t allowed her bruised pride to get in the way. She’s so close to apologising because she wants to know the words he wanted to say before she interrupted. But that’s when it clicks.

Her mouth falls open and her eyes widen.

“Say that again!”

Draco frowns, not entirely losing his icy demeanour as he regards her. “What?”

“That bit about the sword and strength!”

“Gryffindor’s sword absorbs elements that are stronger than it?”

Her mind races and she jumps to her feet. “That’s it!” she exclaims. “That’s why Dumbledore wanted Harry to have Gryffindor’s sword in his will!” 

Draco furrows his brows. “What? He did? When?”

“Gryffindor’s sword is goblin-made and it’s said that dirt and rust have no effect on it.” She doesn’t wait for him to respond and starts pacing the length of the room, her blood coursing through her veins with exhilaration and adrenaline. “And what you said about it only absorbing things that make it stronger…” She looks to him for confirmation. 

“Uh, yes?”

“Well, in our Second Year, Harry killed the Basilisk in Slytherin’s Chambers with the sword!” At Draco’s blank look, Hermione sighs and continues, “So essentially, the sword has been impregnated with Basilisk venom because it takes in that which makes it stronger! And Basilisk venom can be used to destroy Horcruxes! That’s how Harry got rid of the diary!”

Draco’s eyes widen.

“We finally have a way to get rid of the locket!”

* * * * *

“Incredible,” Remus murmurs, eyes darting through the text. “And Dumbledore knew it. Hence, the will. That sly old codger.”

At his side, Tonks clears her throat and nudges her husband with her elbow.

“Brilliant, yes, but terrible to leave this sort of responsibility for children!” Molly huffs and folds her arms over her chest. “What was he thinking?”

“Never mind that now,” Arthur soothes his wife and wraps his arm around her shoulders. “We’re here to help. They’re not alone and I doubt Dumbledore would mind us helping.”

From his corner of the room, Hermione watches as Snape curls his lip and instinctively, she knows he would’ve said something derogatory about the aforementioned wizard. The twisted relationship between the now deceased Headmaster and former Potion’s Master is fraught with tension and resentment and Hermione doesn’t think she will ever understand it.

This Order meeting about the whereabouts of the Sword of Gryffindor has been delayed, only occurring three days after she’d figured its importance. It’s hard, Remus has explained, to get the necessary members to reorganise their schedules for this. But she knows he meant Snape and his precarious position as a spy. Unfortunately, with Voldemort keeping a close eye on his Death Eaters, it’s only today that Snape can sneak away from Hogwarts to make a rare appearance.

“You are the Brightest Witch of your age,” Tonks flashes a smile and leans back in her seat. “Only you would have figured it out.”

She flushes at the praise but straightens in her seat. “It wasn’t just me…. Draco helped. He said something and that’s how I knew.”

Her cheeks turn crimson at the varying looks given in her direction. Among the looks she receives, she sees disbelief, curiosity, surprise and even wariness, but the measuring one given by Snape causes her to duck her head. Using Draco’s name has come too easy for her and she knows that she’s garnered the attention of almost everyone.

She almost envies the blond for having a choice to not make an appearance for this meeting.

“I see,” Tonks’ eyes gleam and she exchanges a glance with Remus and pats her slightly swollen belly. “Good that two brains are working on this if not we’ll just be waddling ducks in the ocean.”

“Hermione, dear, are you sure it’s okay to let the Malfoy boy know this much about his Master…” Arthur trails off hesitantly. 

Before she can give a response, Remus steps in. “It’s fine, Arthur, the boy can be trusted. I was the one who allowed Hermione to include Draco in hitting the books.”

“Ah.” The Weasley patriarch nods and shuffles his feet.

“So all we need is to know where the Sword is. Severus?” Kingsley prompts with a raised brow. His commanding firm voice effectively changes the subject and Hermione gives out a quick exhale.

The Bat of the Slytherin dungeons raises a brow. He’s silent—pensive but he finally answers the Auror’s question. “I will have to see.”

“See?” Harry frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Snape narrows his eyes and Hermione can feel his contempt for her best friend. That too is another thing that puzzles her. For as long as she can remember, Snape has always picked on Harry, ever since their first day at Hogwarts but she’s never known _why._

“It means what it means, Potter,” the man says silkily. “Hogwarts is watched closely by the Dark Lord.”

“So the Sword is in Hogwarts?” Ron asks, scrunching up his nose.

Snape sneers. “If only you were still in school, I would’ve deducted fifty points for sheer idiocy and another fifty for just existing.”

“Now, Severus,” Remus interrupts diplomatically when Molly visibly bristles. “We all have the same goals, there’s no need to antagonise—”

“Is there anything else of importance here?” The hooked-nose man interrupts rudely.

“I know what the other Horcrux is,” Harry announces and that silences everyone. “It’s his snake, Nagini.” Before the room could erupt in questions and demands, he continues, “I-I saw it. In the visions. I was… _her_.”

Everyone remains quiet, digesting this new bit of information.

“There’s no way we’ll be able to get close enough to that thing.” Kingsley rubs his chin. “And no, Tonks, you’re not going anywhere. Not in your condition,” he adds when the Metamorphmagus is about to open her mouth to protest.

In response, the pink-haired witch scowls and slumps back in her chair. It is only when Remus grabs her hand and rubs soothing circles on the back of her palm that she’s mollified. 

Hermione listens and takes note of the several plans made in regards to the Sword. And with Snape staring at them through half-lidded eyes and giving nothing else, it isn’t long before the meeting comes to an end.

She wanders out of the kitchen, watching the crush of people leave, starting with the grouchy professor, the older Weasleys with Ron (she frowns at that) and lastly, Kingsley. 

Harry joins her at the hallway and seeing the lines of tension around his eyes as he watches from the four-panelled floor-length windows, she can tell he’s had a tiff with Ron.

Somehow, she isn’t entirely surprised by that. 

“Okay?”

Harry hums and offers that same crooked smile at her. However, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asks and because they’ve been best friends for close to seven years and both know not to overthink things when it comes to each other, she moves closer and leans her head on his shoulder. 

In return, Harry sighs and pats her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

“Harry…”

“It’s just… the death and the horror and everything,” he says quietly. “I just want it to be over.” 

She knows from recent mission reports that things haven’t been as smooth-sailing as everyone hoped they would be. And being the burden-taker that he is, Harry is no doubt feeling responsible for everything that went wrong. 

“Maybe I should come with you the next time,” she offers. 

“No.” He shakes his head. “We need you here. You and your giant brain, that is.”

She snorts and shoves at him as a reluctant grin form on her face. “You’ll regret saying that when you need a duellist.”

“Hey, _I’m_ a good duellist.”

“Not as good as me,” she retorts.

“Yeah, probably.” Harry’s green eyes gleam. “I’ll be honest, it sucks that you’re not around bossing us around but the truth is, there’s nothing we can do if we don’t figure out those Horcruxes. But thanks to you and Malfoy, we’ve got another way to destroy them.”

She withdraws slowly from him, chewing her bottom lip. “Speaking of, where’s the locket?”

“Ah, that’s classified.” Harry glances around and Hermione should tell him they can speak freely. There’s no one else around. Everyone else has left and the ones who still remain are in the kitchen. Plus, she’s aware that Draco is in his room, not wanting to be gawked at by the Order. “There are only two people who know where it is before it can be destroyed.”

“I assume that’s you and Remus, then?” Hermione raises a brow. 

Harry grins but she thinks it’s more of a smirk. “Nope. That’s too predictable, though, I _know_ who they are but not the whereabouts of the locket and I’ll not say anymore.”

She nudges his shoulder as they turn to walk back down the hallway. “Fair enough, keep your secrets. I don’t want them.” She casts a sideways glance at him. “Fought with Ron, didn’t you?”

“How’d you know?”

“Harry,” she sighs. “It’s obvious. He didn’t say a single word to you.” She starts to list, ticking off each point with her fingers. “He didn’t sit with you during the meeting nor did he even look at you before he left with Molly and Arthur. So, what’s wrong?”

Her best friend heaves out a sigh that is accompanied by the rolling of his eyes. “Nothing much. Just the same issue.”

Automatically, Hermione reads in between the lines.

“Said issue meaning... Draco?” she asks hesitantly before drawing her lower lip between her teeth.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

Harry swings his gaze to her and arches a brow. “What’s with that anyway?”

She squirms. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she hedges and startles a moment later upon realising that’s the same words Draco used a few days ago. She swallows and fidgets with the hem of her pastel pink jumper.

“Well, you can start with how you’re calling him _Draco._ ”

Her cheeks redden and she glowers. “Harry James Potter!” she says sternly. “Stop diverting, you were supposed to tell me about you and Ron!” 

Harry snorts. “Alright, alright, ‘Mione. There’s no need for you to haul out the full name.” He turns serious, brows knotting. “In short, Ron doesn’t trust Malfoy.”

She scoffs. “I know that. Everybody knows that. Even Walburga Black’s portrait knows that.”

“He’s in a snit about how I’ve taken his side.” Harry rubs at his glasses and pushes them up further on the bridge of his nose. “I’ve tried telling him it isn’t about _sides_. It’s about fully utilising all information we can get our hands on to take down Voldemort.”

Hermione blinks. “That’s very mature of you, Harry.”

He flashes a quick grin in her direction. “I know, I’ve been known to have my moments.”

“Cocky git,” she teases and her smile fades. “What did Ron say?”

The-Boy-Who-Lived lets out an agonised groan. “As if you can’t already predict _that_ , Hermione.” He runs his hand through his messy inky hair and shakes his head. “It started with the accusation that I’m joining you to be against him and the same old rant about how Malfoy was a bully and a bigot and the usual rot.”

She chooses to be silent and Harry continues, “But honestly, Malfoy’s different. I can see that. And I guess he can’t be that bad if he’s willing to hang out with you and your obsession with books—”

“Excuse you!”

“Kidding!” he wheezes and rubs his gut where her elbow made contact with. “Merlin’s saggy tits, I was just kidding! You didn’t need to be so brutal! It feels like you got the elbows like the beak of a Hippogriff!”

She scowls but with the way Harry is grinning, eyes bright with mischief and humour and all signs of the melancholic burdened boy he’s been gone from his features, her expression eases and she purses her lips. “Thanks,” she says dryly.

“You’re welcome.” 

“So that’s why you and Ron had that tiff? Because you trusted Draco with information about Horcruxes and the Elder Wand?”

Harry looks at her, something knowing and sure in his gaze. “In a sense. It’s… Ron constantly thinks that there are sides where it doesn’t matter. I’ve grown up—I think. I mean seeing Dumbledore’s death and Snape and realising it’s pre-planned and the Malfoys here—” he stops and casts his gaze down. “Things aren’t just black and white anymore.”

“I don’t think they were ever just black and white,” she says quietly.

“Yeah, it took the war to have me realise that.”

Not liking the downward shift in mood, Hermione grips his arm and offers him a tentative smile. “Well, you have me and Ginny,” she adds and at the look on Harry’s face, she hastily continues, “I know the two of you aren’t together and the myriad of reasons why but I know she understands and supports you.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” A sly look is given. “So back to my earlier question, what’s with you and Malfoy? I’m not an idiot despite what Snape thinks.”

Unbiddenly, her face colours. “What do you mean? There’s nothing. We’re just friends.”

“That's not what Ron thinks.”

“Ron doesn’t know anything,” she mutters under her breath.

“Well, he does seem to think that the two of you are, um, _something_.” Harry scratches the back of his head. “And for a while, so did I.”

She licks her bottom lip. “Me too. But no. I… I’ve been meaning to tell him, but...he’s—”

“But he’s being _Ron_?”

Hermione looks up and the sheer understanding in Harry’s eyes makes her want to tear up. “Y-yeah.”

“Did Malfoy bring this on?”

“I…” How can she even explain that? “It’s complicated,” she finally says. “But it’s not because of Draco, it’s… I’ve realised I treasure Ron for his friendship and I’ll hate to lose that more than anything else.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “So… it’s not because of Malfoy?”

She laughs. “No, it’s not.”

He pushes his glasses up once more and Hermione resists casting a sticking charm on them. “Well, once you finally ‘uncomplicate’ things, let me know and I’ll tell that pointy arsed-face git to be careful with you.”

“Harry!”

“I mean it, ‘Mione,” Harry says solemnly, though, there’s no denying the twinkle in his gaze. “You’re the sister I never had. Albino Ferret Boy better be careful with where his eyes are and to keep his hands above your waist.”

“HARRY!”

* * * * *

Heartened with the time spent chatting and catching up with Harry, who promptly left after remembering a meeting he had with Kingsley, Hermione is left alone to wander about Grimmauld Place. With Draco’s door firmly shut, she thinks twice about disturbing him. Things have been cautiously calm and unfortunately for her, she doesn’t know how to get back to their usual bickering instead of the overly cordial politeness that now exists.

Heading to the kitchen because she severely needs the caffeine only coffee can provide, which she sorely requires for burning the midnight oil later, she swings open the door and jerks into a stop.

The sight of Draco with a statuesque woman greets her.

From the woman’s willowy form, those familiar high cheekbones and styled platinum blonde hair, there is no mistaking her identity—Narcissa Malfoy, the witch who defied Voldemort and dragged her family into serving their once enemies.

Her eyes linger on Draco looking too relieved and joyous as his mother holds him tightly in her arms. His eyes are closed as he burrows his face over his mum’s bony shoulder and Hermione can see how comforted and at peace, he appears to be with the Malfoy matriarch murmuring assurances into his ear.

She may not know Narcissa Malfoy, but Hermione cannot deny the love she has for her son. It’s shown from the strong emotions blazing through those large cornflower blue eyes and in the way she hugs him—arms crossed over Draco’s back as though she can ward off anything that might take her son away if she has him as close as possible—as though she’s afraid the slightest thing would cause him to vanish before her very eyes.

Once more, Hermione is reminded of how Voldemort has nearly ripped apart another family.

The sight before her feels too intrusive and Hermione feels the burning need to leave and pretend she’s not seen any of this.

Before she can, a movement to her left has her frozen in place.

She’s seen the numerous wanted posters plastered all over Wizarding Britain of the infamous and deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. A witch who’s a devoted follower of You-Know-Who and is most known for her proclivity to the Cruciatus Curse and has tortured Neville’s parents into insanity. 

If it isn’t for the deep laugh lines around those brown eyes and the kind smile directed to her, Hermione might have screamed.

“Hermione!” Andromeda Tonks greets cheerily, being an impending grandmother must have its charms for the oldest Black sister looks unbearably pleased, looking like the cat who caught the canary. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

Immediately, the two Malfoys release each other and Hermione wishes she can disappears from view into the faded dark green wallpaper due to the matching piercing gazes shot her way. 

While she’s accustomed to Draco’s burning stare that often drags along the length of her body and leaves her red-cheeked and flustered, she is not prepared for the way Narcissa Malfoy scrutinises her. Compared to the elegant Pureblood dressed in a black form-fitting long-sleeved dress with silver embellishments on the chest and her hair in a sleek chignon, Hermione feels dowdy in her faded denim and her sneakers with her wand shoved into the curly mess that is her unruly hair.

“Andromeda,” she greets with a smile. She turns to Narcissa. “Hello, Mrs Malfoy.” Hermione almost hates the way her voice has gone quiet and hesitant when she meets that narrowed gaze.

“Miss Granger.” Narcissa inclines her head. “My son has told me about you.”

She swallows and shifts her stare to Draco who has gone pale and looks uncomfortable in his spot. 

“ _Mother,_ ” he hisses and grips his mum’s arm.

Narcissa ignores him, not even sparing a glance his way. “You’re the muggle-born witch who’s smart enough to beat him in school, aren’t you?”

Hermione blinks, recognising that is more of a statement than a question. “Yes, Ma’am.”

In all honesty, she’s almost expecting to be called a Mudblood but with Narcissa’s use of the polite terminology for her kind, she’s blown away.

“I must be thankful for your presence, then. If it weren’t for you, my son might have slacked away all year without the academic competition you provided.”

Her mouth drops open at the compliment freely bestowed upon her from Narcissa Malfoy. Surely this cannot be real. She wonders if Voldemort has already struck her with the Killing Curse and this is the afterlife or some parallel universe. “Thank you, Mrs Malfoy,” she stammers, fighting the urge to shift her feet. “But I have to confess that Draco is no slouch in the studying department. There are times he was almost impossible to beat.”

“Thanks, Granger, I knew you recognised my superior smarts all those years ago,” Draco drawls and studies her through the blond fringe that falls over his eyes.

Her gut clenches from the easy way he speaks to her. She misses that.

Hermione shoots him a withering glance for his arrogant comment and because she misses their banter and petty arguments, she snarks back. “Says the wizard who chickened out in the Forbidden Forest all those years ago and who also got mauled by a Hippogriff.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t the one who got turned into a cat because I picked the wrong hair—”

Her brows jump up to her forehead. “Draco Malfoy, I told you that in strict confidence!”

“Nothing is confidential to a Slytherin.”

“You—argh! I am going to shove my wand—”

“Children,” Andromeda interrupts but the wry amused smile belies the admonishing look on her face.

Immediately, Hermione flushes and turns away from him. “Sorry,” she murmurs, fixing her gaze on the ground before peering up at the two adults and then at Draco. The latter looks wholly unaffected and too smug for her liking.

However, the measuring glance that Narcissa Malfoy gives in her direction makes her pause. It doesn’t help that those blue eyes flicker between her son and back to her in a _knowing_ way. Her hands turn clammy and not for the first time, Hermione regrets ever stepping into the kitchen. What must the woman think of her? Arguing with her only son and behaving terribly unladylike and uncouth seems like the worst way to make a good first impression.

Belatedly, she wonders why she even cares.

“Where’s Father?”

“Sulking,” Narcissa says lightly as though the notion of her temperamental Death Eater husband throwing a tantrum doesn’t bother her. In Hermione’s opinion of the formidable woman that she’s met for all of perhaps ten minutes, it probably doesn't.

“Is he…” Draco trails off before his aristocratic features tighten in a twisted combination of resentment and concern. Again, that look serves as a stark reminder of the complex relationship he has with Lucius Malfoy.

“He’s fine. Don’t worry about him, my Dragon. Leave your father to me.” Narcissa smiles and pats his cheek tenderly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, stop worrying, Mum.”

“I’m your mother, it’s my job to worry. You’ll tell me if something isn’t… right, won’t you?” 

“Yes, Mum.”

Watching Narcissa’s sharp eagle-eyed gaze, it isn’t hard for Hermione to believe that this is the same woman, a society Pureblood wife who betrayed Voldemort with nary a thought to the consequences while also managing to bring her husband to heel. In the back of her mind, Hermione remembers Draco’s offhand remarks about his mother having a spine of steel.

“Cissy.” Andromeda glances at the brown Muggle watch adorned on her wrist. “Time’s almost up.”

Narcissa sighs, her face falling for the briefest of seconds before her polite veneer is back. “You will be there for Yule, won’t you?” 

Draco’s expression is almost grudging. “Yes.”

Narcissa beams and abruptly, she turns to Hermione. To be the focus of those pair of eyes who seem to never miss anything is incredibly unnerving; Hermione stiffens and straightens her posture. “You must join us for our traditional Yule dinner at Andromeda’s, Miss Granger.”

Hermione blinks, her mind coming to a halt.

Darting a quick glance towards Draco, she realises that he, too, is surprised by his mother’s statement.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs Malfoy,” she manages to choke out. “But I can’t possibly intrude on a family—”

“I can assure you it won’t be a problem.” Narcissa smiles benignly and clasps her hands together and positions them at the front of her torso. “Draco tells me you’re interested in wizarding customs.”

“Mother!” Draco looks mortified, embarrassed and guilty all at once.

He is ignored.

“I’ll be honoured to share with you some things about us magical folk used to celebrate Yule if you’ll like.”

Mouth slightly agape, Hermione turns to Andromeda who is clearly surprised but nonetheless pleased at the sudden turn of events.

“We’ll like it if you come, Hermione,” Andromeda says warmly. “Tonks and Remus will be there too. Another friendly face to offset Lucius’ scowl will be an added bonus.”

“Um…”

From the corner of her eyes, she takes a small peek at Draco who watches her with that same intensity he always uses. Hastily, she averts her eyes and wrings at her hands.

She recalls Molly’s invitation to the Burrow for dinner on Yule and she knows amongst the numerous redheads, Harry and Ginny toeing around each other and with Ron not speaking to her, she’ll be forgotten and left alone with her thoughts and memories of past Christmases with her now-gone parents. Plus, she knows the Weasleys’ stand on the Malfoys. She doesn't want to spend the holiday defending her friendship with Draco. 

Dinner with the Malfoys and the Tonks family might be a better alternative even though Lucius Malfoy will be in attendance. She won’t be an outcast, not with Remus or Andromeda’s Muggle-born husband there too. And not to mention, that small fluttery part of her—that she’s still confused by—is thrilled by the very idea to celebrate Yule with Draco—to be _with_ him.

“Alright,” she agrees carefully, hoping she isn't going to be regretting this decision. “I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did writing this chapter. In all honesty, I think this is my favourite with the exception of the first, but anyway, do let me know your thoughts again! I enjoy reading them and all the guesswork some of you do and some of the comments you guys leave makes me flail about in my bed from all the gushing—but I digress.
> 
> Anyway, I'll see you all next year! Enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

What exactly can she wear to a Yule dinner hosted by Purebloods?

Hermione flops back to her bed irritatedly, eyeing the clothes strewn messily on the weathered wood panelled flooring before letting out a discouraged sigh. Whatever she has packed when everything went downhill in Hogwarts doesn’t include an appropriate dinner dress. Not when she’s expecting to be camping out in the forest in isolation with her best friends until Harry spilt the beans to the Order on Dumbledore’s plans.

All that her current wardrobe contains are denim, shirts, jumpers and jackets. And while she knows that the Tonks family will be too polite to say anything about her attire, she doubts the same can be said for the Malfoys—specifically, Lucius Malfoy. 

Narcissa Malfoy might have the good breeding and social graces to never insult a guest but Hermione wouldn’t put it past the elder male Malfoy to get some good digs at her for being ignorant and dismissive on wizarding culture and traditions, especially something huge like Yule. Hermione refuses—absolutely refuses to allow anyone, least of all Lucius Malfoy to remind her that she doesn’t belong in their world. 

She’s a witch and she will fight tooth and nail for her birthright.

But now, starting with the lack of appropriate clothing options and how her hair isn’t having a good hair day… Hermione grits her teeth before groaning inwardly. There is no way she can have a face-off with the patriarch of the Malfoy family in just a jumper and sneakers with her rebellious curls in a big nest, not if she wants to be taken seriously.

It doesn’t help her anxiety that the dinner is a scant few hours away. By now, Hermione has half a mind to call the whole thing off. Wondering belatedly if Molly will mind her dropping by the Burrow despite turning down the invitation, her thoughts are interrupted with a series of impatient and random knocks on her walnut door.

“Hermione, are you—Woah, what happened here? Did a thestral get in?” Tonks’ teasing smile is transformed into an incredulous expression once she steps in and sees the mess that is now her bedroom. “Or is it a ferret?"

Hermione frowns and tilts her head. “What?” 

Tonks hastily stifles a laugh and Hermione watches the Metamorphmagus attempt to fix a straight face on her impish features. “Nothing. Private joke between Remus and I—ignore me. What’s with the mess? Did you lose something?”

“No,” she says slowly and glances around the room. “I was… I was just trying to figure out what to wear to dinner later.” She swings her feet off her bed. “Is something wrong?”

“What? Oh, definitely not! Mum just sent me here to make sure you weren’t chickening out of dinner. You weren’t, were you?”

Hermione can acutely feel her cheeks heating up. “No.”

Tonks snorts and crosses her arms. “Liar.”

“Alright, fine. I was. But it’s because I don’t have anything to wear,” she admits, feeling insipid and ridiculous. There they all are in the middle of a war and here she is, worrying about what to wear to dinner. Merlin, what has happened to her priorities? When has she started caring about what other people thought about her? Hermione fidgets nervously and chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe you can convey my regrets to Mrs Malfoy? I don’t want to offend her by—”

“Bollocks!” Tonks crosses her arms and arches her brows. “Hermione, wake up! You’re in a house that once belonged to hardline Purebloods with all those sticky rules and whatnot. Surely none of those old hags would mind you raiding their closets?”

Hermione blinks. She has not thought of that.

“Come _on!_ ” Tonks flashes her a sneaky grin accompanied by a gleam in her eyes. She reaches out and grabs Hermione by the wrist and begins tugging her insistently. “Let’s get something that will knock socks off, eh?”

* * * * *

It turns out that Tonks’ idea does have some merit for Hermione finds a dark red velvet dress with an A-line cut that is cinched snugly at her waist before falling down the rest of her body in neat lines. A small amount of pleasure blooms in her gut when she finds that the simple but elegant looking dress has a feminine touch due to the floral details sewn into the fabric, along with the gentle V-neck that hints at a little cleavage, setting off her creamy complexion and giving the illusion of rosy cheeks. With a hem that stops perhaps three inches above her ankles and sleeves that cuts off at her wrists, Hermione feels decidedly proper—like she’s spun the gold rings of a time turner and has landed four decades in the past.

Tonks lets out a long whistle as Hermione spins once slowly, admiring the way the dress emphasises her better features like her long legs. “Wear that! That’s the dress!”

She nods dumbly, staring in wonder at her reflection.

For the first time in a very long while, Hermione feels beautiful.

She is acutely aware how conventionally plain she is; insecurity has been a part of her for so long that it mostly doesn’t bother her. With brown hair and brown eyes and of average height, Hermione knows she doesn’t exactly stand out in a crowd. That is of course a whole different story if her hair starts acting up and begins frizzing. But now, draped in this red dress and wearing a pair of sophisticated-looking black one-inch heels that are charmed to her shoe size, it’s like the Yule ball all over again.

“You can just use some _Sleekeazy_ on your hair and pin some back away from your face and you’ll be all good,” Tonks offers at her side and gives her a bright smile that she sees from the mirror’s reflection. “Trust me, Hermione, you look beautiful.”

She nods shakily. “Thank you, Tonks.”

Somehow, the older witch must have sensed the turmoil of emotions within her and she squeezes her shoulders as a gesture of comfort and assurance. “Don’t forget with or without the dress, you’re a formidable and very capable witch, Hermione. You have nothing to fear about tonight. Don’t let Lucius Malfoy bully you or push you about, though I doubt that will happen with Aunt Cissa around.”

“Aunt Cissa?”

Tonks shrugs. “Yeah, well. Narcissa’s grown on me and Mum likes it when we all get along. Anyway,” she waves her hand dismissively, “you have about an hour more before I’m coming to get you because I’m already starving. So get moving! Chop! Chop!” With that, Tonks leaves, the sound of the door closing announcing her departure.

Alone, Hermione takes a moment more to give her mirror-self a quick glance. The impromptu pep talk given by the witch she’s always viewed as an older sister hits home. Hard. She stares into the mirror and tilts her chin up before setting her shoulders into a determined line.

Hermione may be voluntarily entering the snake pit, but she’s a lioness. A proud one, at that. 

She’s Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of her Age. 

She doesn’t need the Malfoys’ approval or anyone else’s and she certainly will not be cowed by Lucius Malfoy.

It isn’t long before she’s done and gathering her wand in her hand (the Sleekeazys she has used is a godsend!). Not wanting Tonks to wait and already imagining the teasing and grumbling about taking too long, she swings open the door and abruptly stops in her tracks.

“Ron.”

Her best friend stands before her, a hand curled into a fist in the air and Hermione realises he’s about to knock on her door before she opened it. Ron stares at her, blue eyes taking in her appearance with a long sweep of his lashes. His mouth gapes and he blinks owlishly at her.

“‘Mione, what, um—” he swallows and rubs the back of his neck, face turning a dull shade of red. “You look… _nice_.”

She shuffles her feet and offers him a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

Her gut trembles and somehow, Hermione knows this encounter isn’t going to turn out well. Ron is still staring, no— _gawking_ at her and whatever he wants to say or do is forgotten as he takes in her appearance with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open gormlessly.

A tad uncomfortable with all the scrutiny she’s under, she shifts on her feet and hunches a little. “Was there something I could help you with? Is it Harry? Has something happened?”

“Uh, no. Nothing’s happened.” He straightens, eyes moving back up to her face. “Mum told me you’re not coming for dinner at the Burrow and I was wondering why.” His lanky form twists a little as he steps closer. “Have I said something? Are you cross with me?”

Usually, Ron will hardly ever admit to being in the wrong and if he is, her best friend will brush the whole affair off and act as though nothing is amiss. And Hermione will freely admit that being a point of contention between her and the redhead. However, the few times that Ron did apologise or even acknowledge his wrongdoing, it sent her into a spin, wondering if the event would turn around and bite her in the arse.

She sighs and absentmindedly smooths down the imaginary creases in the folds of her dress. “Actually, Tonks invited me over,” she lies. There is no way she’s admitting to him that Narcissa Malfoy has been the one issuing invites. Silently, she prays the Metamorphmagus wouldn’t appear and cause her to trip over her little white lie. “I wanted to know how Yule is properly celebrated.”

Ron frowns. “Why? Since when have you ever cared about all that old traditional crap? Don’t you want to hang out with me? Or Harry?”

She purses her lips. “I never said I wasn’t interested in Wizarding customs and traditions.” Hermione shakes her head, there isn’t a point in going down that particular road. “Anyway, I do miss you and Harry and it’s just—” she cuts off and makes a shrugging gesture with her hands before wringing them anxiously. “With Harry and Ginny toeing around each other, I…. well. I thought perhaps I could try spending Yule with Tonks and Remus.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” she whispers, gaze dropping while she resists the urge to tug at her hair. It’s a bad habit she’s taken to whenever she’s uncomfortable or feeling awkward in social settings. “I don’t really want to be a third-wheel in that.”

Too late, she realises belatedly, that that’s the wrong thing to say because Hermione knows the path her words will lead to. Her spine stiffens and her skin is probably cold and clammy at the sudden look of determination on Ron’s face.

“‘Mione,” he begins, a hand reaching out for hers, his voice tender and so full of yearning and hope that it sends her stomach plummeting. If she is the girl she was in Hogwarts, without the war tainting her perception of life and destroying the innocence and naivety that girlhood brought, Hermione would have gladly accepted his hand. 

Instead, she wants to whip her hands behind her back and bolt.

“Wait, maybe we can discuss this later?” she tries, eyes pleading with those sky-blue irises that remind her of summer and the ocean.

He can’t, her mind screams. Not now!

“Look Hermione, I have to say it.” He juts his chin and his brows furrow and the tension in her shoulders rockets. “I think we’ve been dancing around this for far too long and I won’t wait anymore.”

No! Not now! Not before Yule! Her lip wobbles tremulously. “Ron, _wait_ —”

“I think I’ve known how I felt about you way before I was ready to admit it—”

The lump in her throat is growing and it’s like she can’t breathe. The walls are closing around her and the anxiety coiling in her gut makes her want to bow over and retch. 

“Please, not now,” she tries once more, her voice shaky and is that tears gathering in the corners of her eyes?

Her best friend’s face is hopeful, tenderness and longing etched in his features as he grasps her wand hand in his. His fingers, calloused and rough from quidditch and helping about his home with household chores, curl around hers and even though his hold is firm and careful, it feels like a cage—a prison where she cannot escape from this nightmare.

“I’ve messed up too many times but—”

Weakly, she tries to snatch her hand back but his grip is too strong. As he smiles at her, her heart sinks because deep down, she knows this is _it._

“—I love you, ‘Mione.”

“Ron, no!” she blurts out through glassy eyes. The two words echo deafeningly and his hold on her hand slackens, allowing her to rip her hand back and she tucks it to her side.

“No?” Blue eyes gaze in confusion at her. “But…” Ron blinks, his face contorting into a myriad of expressions that leave her hollow and feeling all too wretched like a villain in a story. “W-what do you mean, no?” he stammers, taking a step back from her.

She closes her eyes and wraps her arms around herself. When she opens them, his face is full of distress and disbelief. “Ron, please,” she starts hesitantly. “I love you too, but it’s not the same type—”

“Why?!” Voice full of anguish, the redhead takes several steps back and runs his hands forcefully through his hair.

She can only watch like a spectator in a horror Muggle film as he paces frantically, murmuring and muttering to himself with words she cannot hear and decipher. Dazed by how everything’s turned out, she’s slow to react when he marches right up to her and grabs her by the shoulders. 

“What’s changed?” he demands hotly. “I love you and you’re telling me it’s different for you? That you don’t feel the same?!”

She squirms, doing her best to wriggle free from his tight hold, but when his hands represent iron bars, she shoots him a baleful glare. “ _Ronald_ , would you let go of me?”

“Answer me!”

“It’s not you!” She stomps her foot on his and jabs her elbow into his solar plexus and that’s when he finally releases her. Hunching over, he hacks out a series of dry sounding coughs. Thank Merlin for her Dad teaching her some Muggle self-defence. “It’s not me or anyone else!” She waits for Ron to give her his full attention before she continues.

How can she even start to explain? 

The things she’s shared with both Harry and Draco doesn’t even cover everything that has changed between her and Ron.

She blinks back the burgeoning storm of tears and the lump in her throat clogs up her voice. Curling her hands into fists at her sides, her nails cutting into the soft flesh of her palms, she struggles with the torrent of things that zips through her mind. And for all the reasons that she has, she can’t even string a sentence together. Not when Ron is glaring at her in resentment and hurt and—

“What then, Hermione?” Ron is harsh, eyes flashing as he angles his body to face her. “Let’s hear it,” he sneers, baring his teeth. “Or are you lying and that there is someone else?”

A pair of grey eyes and a crooked smirk blaze through her mind. 

As quickly as the image comes, she drives it away with utter ferocity. She is infinitely grateful that Ron is not a Legilimens. 

“No!” she snaps, glancing away and peering down the hallway, wondering if anyone—especially _him_ —is overhearing this incredibly private conversation. “I told you, there isn’t anyone else! I just don’t feel the same way because….” she trails off and gathers all of her strength and courage, “things are different now. I’ve grown up, I-I’ve changed and I don’t think I’m the same Hermione you’re in love with.”

Ron is stone-faced as he regards her. 

The hallway is silent and in the quiet, she can hear his ragged breathing and her short pants. A moment later, she becomes aware that she’s sniffling as a tear spills down her cheek. Merlin, is she crying?

“Ron?” she whispers, taking a tiny step towards him. “Please,” she begs. “Say something.” _Tell me that you’re okay with this. Tell me that you don’t hate me. Tell me that our friendship will survive this._

She can’t bear this. She can’t bear the inevitable downfall of her friendship with the boy she’s grown up with, who’s been at her side all these years. She can’t lose him over something like this.

His eyes turn hard and her heart falls. “You always ruin everything,” he rages. Ron clenches his jaw and his lips tremble. “You’re so bloody fucking full of shite! How could you?!”

Distantly, Hermione is hit with a sense of déjà vu.

Flashback to their Fourth Year with the Triwizard Tournament and it’s her and Ron having a screaming showdown in the Gryffindor common room. Being called a traitor for befriending the ‘enemy’ was one thing, but being expected to be the last resort as a date for the Yule Ball was another thing altogether. She remembers crying into her pillow that night.

How is it that history is always repeating, weaving the same threads again and again?

“Leave,” she says coldly, numb to her bones. She’s sick of being yelled at and accused by Ron when she’s done nothing wrong and she refuses to take it anymore. “Leave right now and go have dinner with your family.”

Ron turns ashen, his face losing its ruddy colour. “Happy fucking Yule, Hermione,” he says flatly. Turning on his heel, he leaves and she’s left watching his retreating form. His heavy steps down the stairs remind her of the sounds produced by nails hammering into the lid of a coffin.

The coffin where the tatters of their friendship now lie.

Back sagging against the door, she angrily swipes at the teary trails on her cheek. The hurt and the anger and the resentment bubble precariously in her stomach and she knows that anymore and she will erupt into a raging volatile mess. Blinking hard, she takes a few shaky breaths in a weak effort to calm herself down before forcing herself to regulate her breathing with slow and deep exhales.

Once the fury has receded from her veins and her heart, she presses her lips into a thin line and slowly uncurls her fingers. It’s Yule and as a holiday where she has always felt safe and joyous amongst her loved ones, she will not allow Ron to spoil the day for her. Or at least, not ruin it further.

It’s only when the evening ends and she’s in bed that Hermione will mourn and think about the ruins of her friendship with Ron. But for now, she fully intends to put him out of her mind. Furthermore, she will go to dinner with the Tonks’ and the Malfoys and she will try to have a good time, even though she’s sure the eldest Malfoy would be sniping at her. Though, at this point, anything seems infinitely better than spending time thinking about Ron, even if it includes Lucius Malfoy.

As if on cue, the door down the hallway opens and Draco steps out.

Her gaze flies to him and collides with silver-grey eyes that widen when they notice her. And for that brief moment, it feels like the world has stopped turning on its axis.

Hermione stares, taking in the black dress robes that he has on and her mouth goes dry.

It’s odd, she muses faintly. She’s seen him daily, skulking and slinking about Grimmauld Place dressed in all sorts of clothing and almost every single piece is in the colour of the night. But the very sight of him now has her weak in the knees.

Blond hair slicked back from his face and parted at the side, the combed hairstyle shows off the angular planes of his face and what features she’d mocked as pointy so long ago clearly works in his favour. The well-tailored cut of his dress robes defines and flatter his form, outlining his broad shoulders down to his trim waist before falling down his abdomen in neat lines. Whereas, the midnight shade of his clothes brings out the paleness of his skin, further highlighting the stark contrast. Dragonhide wingtip shoes adorn his feet and the image he presents sends her pulse skyrocketing.

Heart in her throat, her lips part and something like anticipation coupled with adrenaline is being pumped through her veins at the speed of a snitch fluttering in the air. 

But his gaze… she swallows and darts the tip of her tongue out to wet her lower lip. Draco’s gaze scorches her from the inside. She doesn’t miss the way his gaze rakes ever so slowly over her form. Heat starts to bloom in her cheeks when she notices the focus of his stare is at the sharp-angled neckline of her dress. Her skin feels tight— _itchy_ beneath the garment and she fights the urge to squirm. She can’t. Not when he’s looking at her like that. Not when she’s sure she might be visibly trembling from the force of his hooded stare. At that, she presses her thighs together.

“Granger,” he finally greets, raising his head to meet her eyes. She notes that his voice verges on being guttural and hoarse.

She thinks, no, she _knows_ her cheeks will be hot to the touch.

“Draco,” she says, fighting the urge not to fidget from the way he’s looking at her. She isn’t uncomfortable but she’s afraid that she might do something stupid and crazy, like grab him. “You look like you’re attending the Yule ball again.”

He shrugs. “Mother has standards.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her borrowed dress and charmed shoes. “Is this...fine?”

“Yeah.” His voice is choked and when she looks up, the tips of his ears are pink. “You look, um… you look… good.”

Her shoulders slump as disappointment settles like a heavy weight in her gut. “Oh.” She lowers her gaze and tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “Thanks,” she says quietly. 

Hermione honestly hopes she has a poker face because the lukewarm compliment Draco gives isn’t really what she thought and hoped she’ll hear. Nonetheless, her self-esteem is bruised and again, she feels ridiculous dressed like this. What has she been thinking? She’s never been pretty, so what business does she have in attempting to look like this? Her fingers dig into the velvet of the dress and she itches to take it off and hide under the comfort and familiarity of her jumper and denim trousers.

“No, I—” Draco lets out a sound of genuine frustration and he drags his fingers through his hair. “No, that's not what I was—” he cuts himself off and his cheeks redden. “You...You look beautiful, Hermione.”

She jerks, her heart stopping for the barest of seconds. 

_Beautiful._

Hermione blinks rapidly, lips parting as she sucks in a huge breath of air.

The disappointment has vanished, replaced with a lightness in her soul that she can’t explain. She feels like the definition of joy and Hermione knows if she isn’t careful, she’ll be beaming from ear to ear. 

With Draco not shifting his eyes away from hers, she fights the urge to clasp her hands over her cheeks as warmth pools slow and hot in her belly. She’s never experienced this before. What exactly can she call the sensations that skitter along her nerves, sending her brain into a spin, causing her to become incredibly tongue-tied?

Unable to meet those piercing silver eyes, she abruptly ducks her head down and peers at him from under her lashes. “I—” she swallows and licks her bottom lip. “Thank you, Draco,” she says in a near-whisper.

Transfixed, her attention is caught with the way his throat bobs as he swallows and the elegant manner he shrugs. He doesn’t say anything but Hermione can see the pinkness of his cheeks spreading down to his neck. She finds it alarmingly, and a tad intriguing that she wonders if that same flush reaches down his chest. If it isn’t for the collar of his dress robes, she might get an answer to her question.

Clearing her throat at the sudden turn of her thoughts, she crosses her arms, the movement entirely awkward but Hermione charges on. What she needs is a change in subject, to guide them from this increasingly familiar tension that surrounds both of them whenever they are near.

“D-did you hear any of that?” she asks haltingly and gestures awkwardly to the space beside her.

Stupid. Did she really have to bring up Ron? Is she the _Brightest Witch of her Age_? Or is she the _Brightest Witch of her Age whenever Draco Malfoy isn’t Around?_

Draco raises a brow. “No.”

It’s been months and Hermione knows when he’s fibbing. She might be a shite liar, but so is he. She scoffs. “You did, didn’t you? Every single word?”

“No.”

If she isn’t sure about his truthfulness, she is now when a small smirk forms on the curve of his mouth. She flushes and shifts on her feet.

“Well, it was nice to hear the Weasel being put in his place,” he says lightly, adjusting the folds of his robes, dusting imaginary specks of lint off the impeccable material.

“I thought you said you didn’t hear a thing!”

“Come on, I know that you know that I lied.”

She rolls her eyes. Idiot.

Draco flashes a full smirk at her and strides closer before holding up his arm. “Granger,” he drawls lazily and tilts his head. “Are you coming?”

Hermione stares at him for a beat and loops her arm into his. Beneath the layers of his clothes, she can feel the lithe sinewy ropes of muscle that make up his bicep. She licks her lower lip once more. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You are,” he says agreeably.

She snatches a glance up at him, the scent of him assaulting her senses with an intensity that sends her spinning.

Draco’s mouth curves. “After you.”

Her stomach swoops.

* * * * *

Despite the apprehension she’s felt earlier about the dinner hosted by Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy, nothing can be said for the way her stomach churns as she steps into the only fireplace that is linked to the Floo network in Grimmauld Place.

Within a blink of an eye, she’s arrived. Carefully gathering her skirt in her hands, she gingerly steps out of the fireplace and into a homey-looking sitting room splashed with warm colours and beautiful oak furniture. It is a far cry compared to the dark elegance and Slytherin aesthetics of Grimmauld Place. 

Naturally, the one person who’s waiting for her is Narcissa Malfoy and Hermione winces when she has to brush the soot off her hair and her dress as the woman smiles benignly at her.

Similarly to their first meeting, the Malfoy matriarch is donned in a black dress with a skirt that reaches her ankles and with a high neckline. The cuff of her sleeves are fitted to her wrists and are hemmed with the same silver patterns found on the bottom of her dress. Upon a closer look, Hermione notes that the fabric has delicate patterns sewn in with black glittery thread. With her blonde hair pulled into an immaculate elegant twist and a strand of delicate pearls around her neck, Narcissa looks every inch the respectable socialite she’d been before the war began.

Hermione swallows and forces a smile. “Happy Yule, Mrs Malfoy,” she greets stiltedly. Fervently, she hopes that the Floo hasn’t ruined her dress or caused her hair to be its usual tangled mess.

“Happy Yule, Ms Granger.”

The warm smile she receives allows Hermione to relax, draining a small amount of anxiety out of her gut.

“Hermione!” Andromeda smiles, making her way into the room with a broad smile and a cream-coloured frilly apron tied around her waist. “Happy Yule, my dear!”

Like her younger sister, Andromeda is in a dress of a similar outline and form. However, where Narcissa is dressed in black the eldest Black sister is lively and cheerful in deep emerald green that brings out the colour in her dark curls.

She returns the greeting enthusiastically and winces upon realising she hasn’t greeted Narcissa in that same manner. Hermione turns and breathes out a sigh when she notes that Narcissa is more preoccupied at the sight of the Floo rumbling, marking her son making his entrance. 

Too late, Hermione realises a few seconds later that she hasn’t moved away from the fireplace. The result being Draco stumbling into her when the Floo spits him out. His hands clutch at her shoulders as he trips over the metal grate and the next thing Hermione knows, her face is pressed into his chest. 

Sandalwood, strong and musky, fills her senses and the linen of his dress robes are comforting and oh-so-soft against her cheek. For some insane reason, Hermione closes her eyes and _breathes_ him in, imagining the sound of his heart beating beneath the layers of his clothes. With his arms on her, and her fingers clutching the lapels of his dress robes, it almost feels like an _embrace_.

The exclamations that sound out around break her out of her daydream and she pushes frantically at his body and huffs, hoping her curls can hide the growing blush on her face. Unluckily for her, Hermione turns red all too easily.

“Granger,” Draco growls and pushes his fringe out of his eyes and smooths his robes down. Though, there is no mistaking the faintest flush on the planes of his face. “Why the bloody hell were you lounging about and blocking the Floo for?”

She colours brilliantly.

“It was an accident!” she grits through her teeth. “You could have given some warning when you were coming through!”

“I don’t know what it’s like at the hovel the Weasleys call home but generally, when using the Floo with someone, you _immediately move out of the way!_ ”

Truthfully, Hermione recognises whatever that happened as her fault. She should have stepped out of the way. However, Draco’s defensiveness has put her on edge and she can’t seem to apologise, not when he’s being an enormous arse.

Her eyes flash. “You’re one to talk, Ferret Boy.”

Her blonde counterpart’s mouth twists and Hermione raises her chin in a bad attempt to prepare herself for a cutting insult that would tear her to shreds.

“Draco.” The tone is unmistakably motherly—stern and firm and chiding all at once. But it has an effect on the intended.

Draco swallows and glances away from her, his attention on the willowy figure of his mum. “Mum,” he mutters grudgingly and his gaze skitters away. “Happy Yule.”

Narcissa raises a perfectly arched brow but whatever she might have wanted to say, she holds it back with grace. She strides towards her son and embraces him. “Blessed Yule, my Dragon.”

An uncomfortable expression flashes across his angular face, something that remarkably resembles guilt and shame but Hermione knows better than to pry or react. It’s been a while since he’s allowed his walls to fall and despite their minor spat, she doesn’t want them to go back to the way they were before—her being locked out of his impenetrable fortress.

“Blessed Yule,” he murmurs back.

“Now, come along, Hermione,” Andromeda smiles, grabbing her attention as she raises her arm towards her. “I hope you’re not allergic to anything.”

“You cooked?”

“Oh, yes!” Andromeda’s eyes twinkle as she hugs the younger witch. “It’s always been a hobby of mine, don’t you remember, Cissa?” she calls out.

“Of course, you and your lemon cakes with poppy seeds and icing,” Narcissa says wistfully as she glides into the conversation with ease. “No one could ever compare. Not even Honeydukes or those patisseries in Paris.”

Hermione watches as the sisters begin recalling bits of their childhood, of the places they visited, of the gourmet food they’ve consumed, the fashion and the people they’ve met over the years. Never, she thinks with some awe—that despite the turbulent Black family history that Sirius explained once so long ago—that some family bonds would be bound too tight to shatter.

At her side, Draco ambles closer to her. His hands are in his pockets and no matter what feelings she thinks she has for him, Hermione is still miffed with him. Nevermind she can still feel the ghosts of his hands on her or the puffs of breath on the top of her head.

“Sorry.”

She jerks at that one word uttered from his lips. She looks up at him, eyes wide.

Draco has his eyes fixed ahead on the sight of his mum and his aunt. He is still and in the lighting of the room, he greatly resembles a carved marble statue she’s seen in exhibits in Muggle London. Hermione starts to wonder if she’s imagined the apology but when his gaze darts to hers from the corner of his eyes, her doubts are washed away. 

“It’s fine,” she says quietly, chancing a quick glance in his direction. Her hands itch to clutch at her dress or fiddle with her wand that is hidden in a seam at the side of the dress. Whoever invented these little nifty pockets for storing wands is a genius in her books.

“I haven’t seen my father in a while.”

That sentence reveals a whole new chapter to the long and twisted story of Draco Malfoy and Hermione gets it. She doesn’t know much but she knows _enough_. And the topic of his father is probably a whole separate volume filled with numerous footnotes and annexes.

“Oh.” She gives in the urge to wring her hands together. “I’m sure that he misses you too,” she says lamely, though the idea of Lucius Malfoy missing anything but his position and station in Wizarding Britain is ludicrous and so alien.

He lets out a bitter laugh and cards a hand through his hair, mussing up the sleek blond hairstyle. “As if that matters.”

“He’s still your father,” she says. “Nothing can change that.” _Unlike what I did to mine,_ she thinks forlornly.

“Granger.” Draco’s brows are furrowed and his eyes narrowed and she knows with absolute certainty that he hasn’t missed the break in her tone or how her face has contorted into one full of grief. “What—”

She shakes her head furiously, fighting the sting of tears. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He gives her a measuring look. “Alright.”

Hermione could have hugged him for not forcing the issue. Instead, she settles for a shaky smile, which he returns a fraction smaller after a pause.

Behind them, the Floo sounds and this time, both of them step out of the way as Tonks barges through the room in a hurricane of pink and orange. “Happy Yule, everyone!” she cheers and hoots. “Let’s begin, I’m starving and so is Mini-Me!” she adds with a pat to her swelling belly.

Together, they are led into a long hallway and there is no mistaking the boughs of greenery that are hung on the walls. The scent of pine and cinnamon and clove are heavy in the air but Hermione loves it. Scented candles are lit, bringing a warm and rosy glow to the house and while there aren’t any Muggle Christmas carols playing, there’s a faint hint of wizarding music in the background. The atmosphere and environment are so vast from the ones that she’s familiar with that her head is swinging from one thing to another, eager to see and experience everything.

“We have holly,” Narcissa starts proudly as she points out the plants hung near a window, “It’s long thought that they ward off malcontent spirits due to the prickliness of their leaves. Hence, they’re always found near exits and entrances to a house. The crimson berries, however, represent potency due to their colour—it’s considered a masculine element.”

Behind her, Draco lets out a quiet snort and Hermione throws a glare over her shoulder and jabs a warning blow to his chest. The barely audible _oomph_ that escapes him fills her with satisfaction.

Narcissa, all too pleased to have an attentive and interested student in the old ways, points a manicured finger to a bundle of evergreen. “Plants that are green all year round are brought into a home as they symbolise life and renewal. Mostly, the wizards of old thought they held back death and destruction because the green in their leaves never faded.”

“At least it’s a Slytherin colour,” Draco mumbles.

She doesn’t have the opportunity to pinch him because when they step into the dining room, Hermione’s mouth drops to the floor.

The table is draped in a grand red and gold tablecloth that touches the floor (she guesses it’s a homage to Ted Tonks’ Gryffindor background) and is piled with all sorts of food ranging from minced pies, a huge slab of baked ham that appears to be glazed with honey, roasted brussels sprouts and more. Her mouth waters at the spread, not including the jugs of wine, glasses of eggnog or the desserts comprising log cakes, berry pies and even moon biscuits. 

Ironically, as the daughter of dentists, Hermione admittedly has a sweet tooth and she yearns to sink her teeth into a chocolate frosted biscuit.

She finds herself seated near the middle with Draco on her left and Remus on her right. Tonks, who has nicked a piece of ham, is munching satisfactorily on it as she sits opposite her husband, with her mum at her side. Inseparable, Narcissa sits beside Andromeda, facing Draco as she gives him a warm happy smile. Oddly, both ends of the table remain curiously empty.

“Where’s Lucius?” Remus asks as he unwinds his scarf from his neck and drapes it over the back of his chair. Snow is still apparent in his brown locks. “We’re all here.”

Slow steady steps sound and Hermione watches as Lucius Malfoy enters.

At her left, she can feel Draco tensing.

The head of the Malfoy family might have fallen from grace but Hermione thinks he looks intimidating and sly as ever—similarly to their first encounter in Flourish and Blotts all those years ago. The memory of Gilderoy Lockhart’s grating laugh and Lucius’ disdain is strong in her memory.

And yet, no matter how regal he appears, dressed in the matching dark colours of his wife, the marks that Azkaban inflicted during his brief stint is clear for all to see. It’s in the deeper lines of his face and the exhaustion that clings to his shadow. Even more, the pallor of his skin will never regain the same healthy glow that spoke of life—no amount of time under the weak British sun would ever help.

“Happy Yule, Father,” Draco mutters after a sudden jerk that has his face screwed up into a wince. Hermione suspects that his mum has kicked him in the shin.

“Draco,” Lucius drawls, taking a seat at the end of the table where his wife and son are seated. “How have you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good.”

Hermione peeks at Narcissa who seems overjoyed that her family is back together under one roof and sharing a meal cordially. Her smile is bright and her blue eyes are shining as she watches her husband and son interact, no matter how brief and curt.

“Now that we’re all here,” Andromeda grins and holds up a glass of elven wine. “Let’s eat!” 

“Finally!” Tonks grumbles lightheartedly.

“Wait,” Hermione turns, her head swivelling for the brown-haired man with a kind smile, eyes zeroing in on the empty chair at the opposite end of the table. “Where’s Ted?”

At that, a solemn silence falls and she blinks when Andromeda’s smile dims. “I’m afraid he won’t be joining us this evening,” she says in a soft voice. “He’s left the country upon my insistence for his safety—the very night Dumbledore fell.”

Inwardly, Hermione is kicking herself for causing the tension in the room to escalate and for the abrupt stiffness in the Malfoys. “Oh.”

“But he’s here in spirit,” Narcissa hastily steps in at the ashen look on Draco’s face. “And we can be thankful that he’s far from harm, away from the war.”

“Well, Dad’s not missing much with our current company,” Tonks’ mutters and throws a snide look at Lucius that no one misses. “He’s definitely safer abroad than in his own home.”

“Nymphadora!” Andromeda looks aghast.

“What?”

“If you have something to say, _Nymphadora_ ,” Lucius begins silkily as he picks up the silver knife and fork that spoke of etiquette lessons, “do say it. I’ll hate for there to be any misunderstandings. Not with… _family._ ”

Hermione has to be honest, she finds it incredible that Lucius can make a simple sentence have such a menacing edge while looking perfectly civil. It’s a gift, she thinks.

“Lucius.” Narcissa frowns and sets her hand over his. “Please.”

“Do _not_ call me Nymphadora!” The Metamorphmagus’ hair turns scarlet as she jams the hilt of her dinner knife into the table.

“Do not damage my table!” Andromeda snaps.

Tonks’ hunches back in her chair and sulks and it’s only when Remus moves to the adjacent seat to her right that she calms down. “Whatever,” she mutters under her breath and throws a dark look towards her estranged uncle.

Lucius, on the other hand, looks perfectly at ease and unflappable in the wake of the outbursts that he’s unwittingly caused.

Dinner commences and Hermione eats quietly, listening as the two Black sisters chatter, catching up on two decades worth of conversations that secret letters can never carry. Tonks and Remus are in their own world and if the witch is affected by the absence of her father, she doesn’t show it. At her side, Draco is equally silent and turning to him in between forkfuls of ham, she wonders at the workings of his mind.

There is a huge elephant in the room and it’s plain as daylight that it has nothing to do with anyone except the two male Malfoys.

She has relegated herself to be an observer to dinner. Nothing more and nothing less and while it isn’t as lively as what she’s used to at the Burrow, she’s okay with it.

“So son, what have you been up to?”

Abruptly, all conversations cease and Hermione flicks a glance in Draco’s direction to see that hard older grey eyes are pinned on her instead. She freezes, slowly setting her cutlery down. Despite the years, the force and intensity of the elder Malfoy’s stare have never waned.

“Nothing much,” Draco replies stiffly. His jaw is clenched and the lines around his mouth are severe. “Why do you care?”

“I do,” Lucius says smoothly. “I always have had the vested interest of the wellbeing of my only son.”

Aforementioned son snorts derisively and shoves his fork down onto his porcelain plate violently. “Doesn’t ring any bells in my mind, _Father_.” Draco curls his lip. “Because from what I can remember, my wellbeing is only considered when it aligns with your own interests.”

“Think what you like but I always did my best to ensure you had the best in life.”

Hermione cringes, already foreseeing the fallout of that statement.

“Was kowtowing to that fucking maniac and making me take the Mark part of that?” Draco snarls, eyes flashing with fury. “That should grant you the Father of the Year award, shouldn’t it? Being tortured on my own bloody living room floor was the ringer?”

Narcissa pales and Lucius thins his lips and glances away.

Hermione glances around the table, noting the pain on Andromeda’s face and the discomfort on both Tonks and Remus, the latter looking as though he's wishing he’s anywhere but here in the present.

“I did what I thought was right!”

“Oh? Did you? And where the fuck has that gotten you?” Draco rages, eyes cold as ice, his words resemble shards of glass slicing into his father. “Azkaban, our family name in shreds and not to mention, the fucking death mark on our arms! I could go on with the list but more notedly, if it wasn’t for Mum, I would’ve been dead by now!”

“Draco, please,” Narcissa starts, her eyes turning glassy but she is ignored.

“Don’t you speak to me in that way, boy!” Lucius says sharply. “Our family has always been of utmost priority and despite everything that has happened, I am still your father!”

“You may be,” Draco concedes bitterly. “But you weren’t a father where it counted! You got us into this mess! And you’re the reason why my life is ruined!”

“You insolent little whelp—”

“Lucius!” Narcissa hisses dangerously. “That is enough! You promised me that you wouldn’t speak out of turn this evening!”

Surprisingly, the elder Malfoy clamps his mouth shut and drains his glass of wine in one go.

“Draco,” Narcissa starts, her tone losing its harsh edge as she turns to her son. “Your father is truly sorry for everything that has happened and while he’s been spearheading our family into this direction, you must not lay the blame solely on him.” She hesitates, expression clouding as she furrows her brows. “He may not be a saint, but I too, am at fault. If I have tried harder to talk him out of following the Dark Lord, things could have turned out very differently for all of us.”

Hermione openly gawks at the way Lucius tenses and lowers his head in what seems like shame. But what floors her is the way he grabs Narcissa’s hand and squeezes it gently, a thumb caressing the opulent emerald ring on her fourth finger. 

That small interaction between husband and wife answers Hermione’s burning question of how Narcissa has managed to turn her family away from Voldemort.

Draco swallows roughly, eyes on his plate as his shoulders sag. “Whatever.”

An agonising silence falls across the room and for all of Tonks’ ability to lighten the mood, she fails and resigns to simply stuffing her mouth. In the miserable quiet, Hermione chews on her bottom lip and snatches another fleeting look at Draco, who appears ridden in guilt at his mother’s sombre countenance.

Mind made up, Hermione straightens and leans closer. “Mrs Malfoy,” she starts haltingly, freezing for the barest of moments when six pairs of eyes swing towards her. “I don’t think you’ve covered the traditional food and the things they symbolise yet. And forgive me, I’ve been dying to know.”

Narcissa blinks and a tremulous smile forms on her painted lips. “Of course, you’re right, Ms Granger.” There is no mistaking the brightening in the Pureblood’s features as she starts on the importance and the representation that eggnog gives.

Beneath the table, covered by the tablecloth, Hermione startles when a cool masculine hand sneaks down to her lap and grasps hers. She doesn’t look at him when she laces their fingers together.

But she does glance up at him when his grip tightens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 2021, lovelies!! I hope everything is going well for you guys!! and here's the next instalment of this soap opera for you all! again, this is barely edited so bear me with me!! as always, do let me know what you think! once more, thank you all so much for reading and showing this fic all the support and love!! ❤️
> 
> P.S. and I mean the hand holding thing where both Malfoy men do? Goddd
> 
> P.P.S also, I've been meaning to share that this fic title _and with you, i fall_ is a variation from Romeo's words in _Romeo and Juliet: thus with a kiss, i die._ yeahhh don't take anything negative from that. I could go on a long spiel about my choice of words and _why_ but it'll be too long lol :")
> 
> P.P.P.S Please tell me that Ron and Hermione's disagreement went well!! i get utterly terrified of portraying Ron as the 'bad' guy :")))))


	7. Chapter 7

Draco’s hand is warm and firm.

In his grasp, her hand is dwarfed by his. Skin to skin, she can feel the rough calluses on the upper portion of his palm and the ridge of his knuckles beneath her fingertips. She doesn’t dwell on the fact that his bony slim digits slot into the gaps between hers perfectly—as though their hands are made to fit each other.

It’s good that she’s almost finished with her meal because Hermione wouldn’t have any idea how to approach the slab of meat she’s eaten earlier with a single hand. At least with her right hand free, she is still able to spear the small slice of mince pie without the delicate crumbs falling apart. 

Even so, Hermione will admit she is loathed to let go.

Not when Draco is staring, gaze fixed on his plate as he holds her hand like she’s his lifeline. She likes it. She likes that the usually unflappable Malfoy scion is depending on _her_ —as though she’s his shelter in the storm and his lifeboat in the raging seas. It sends a warm glow down her chest that leaves her breathless and dizzy. Head ducked, she sneaks a glance his way from under her lashes, once more subtly admiring his slicked hair and aristocratic features. 

Despite Lucius’ gaffe and Draco’s volatile outburst, conversation flows as Narcissa continues chatting animatedly with Andromeda and Tonks. From the way Remus is listening somberly, only occasionally contributing, Hermione guesses the subject manner is regarding Tonks’ pregnancy. She is all too aware of the werewolf’s fears about being a father and the possibility of passing down the dreaded gene.

Meanwhile, the two Malfoy men are silent at their corners of the table. Despite the chasm that divides them, Hermione notes with growing amusement that both blonds are seated in similar positions, backs straight and heads bowed, a hand poking listlessly at their food, pushing the bite-sized items around on their porcelain plates. Even their haughty features are set in the exact sullen twist.

That must be a Malfoy trait.

“—isn’t that right, Hermione?”

She blinks, jerking up in her seat as once more, six pairs of eyes are staring at her. Beneath the table, Draco’s grip slackens and she mourns the loss of his fingers curled around hers.

“W-what?” she stammers stupidly, brows furrowing as Tonks’ grins. “I beg your pardon,” she swallows. “I-I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I was saying,” Tonks starts and Hermione refuses herself to shrink back from the heavy glare that Lucius Malfoy is shooting her, or the way Narcissa is studying her speculatively over a glass of eggnog. “That you and Draco are friends now.” The Metamorphmagus smirks. “Considering I no longer hear complaints about the two of you arguing.”

Remus flushes and hastily forks a piece of ham into his mouth.

“I-um, yes?” Hermione’s gaze swings around the table wildly. Unable to help herself, she darts a quick glance in Draco’s direction.

The tips of his ears are pink.

“I’m glad,” Narcissa says, smiling, her blue eyes are kind but there is a calculative gleam in them. “With how things have...changed, Draco needs friends now more than ever, don’t you agree, Miss Granger?”

Feeling distinctly cornered and not exactly able to decipher the sly look on Narcissa’s face, Hermione settles on nodding and pushing the attention off her. Through the months, she’s learnt a thing or two from Draco and his Slytherin tendencies. “Yes, Mrs Malfoy,” she echoes demurely. “But I’m sure Draco treasures Harry’s friendship more than mine. After all, they were at odds with each other from the very start.”

She receives a withering glare from the blond. 

“Shove off, Granger,” he drawls and pushes his hair back. He misses a section and a cowlick springs up. To Hermione, that particular imperfection causes him to look utterly endearing. “Pothead and I have a mutual understanding.”

Tonks wrinkles her nose. “A mutual understanding?” She rolls her eyes and rests her chin on her palm. 

“Merlin, you’re making it sound like some torrid love affair. If I wasn’t already aware of what’s going on, it would seem like the two of you have been secretly lusting after each other—”

At his end of the table, Lucius Malfoy must have inhaled his glass of elven wine for he turns purple and begins producing big great hacking wet coughs that echo around the room.

“Lucius!” Narcissa cries and hurriedly thumps at his back.

“Dora!” Andromeda groans.

“What?” To her credit, Tonks looks unruffled and even more amused as she leans back into her chair. “I was just sayin’ an observation.”

“Well, kindly butt the fuck out!” Draco snaps and scowls. “If it’s anyone having a torrid love affair, it’s Scarface and the Ginger Growth!”

Remus grimaces and rubs at his temples. “Draco, please. I hardly need that visual.” The werewolf turns to their host in a desperate bid to change the subject. “Shall we bring out the desserts?”

Andromeda nods vigorously. “I believe we shall.”

“Wait.” Lucius’ masterful drawl that manages to sound benign but yet deprecating cuts through the air, and manages to halt all movements. It is a trait Draco hasn’t acquired for all of his taunts and lazy sneers. “What did you mean earlier, Nymphadora?”

Tonks stills and turns red. This time, the witch doesn’t bother to correct the misuse of her name and defiantly lifts a brow. “What?”

“Do kindly elaborate on what exactly you’re aware of.”

Hermione recognises that statement as nothing less than an order and with a hint of shame, she thinks it’s unfortunate that Azkaban hasn’t robbed the man of his arrogance and entitled nature. 

“Lucius,” Narcissa tries and grips his forearm warningly. “Do not—”

“I don’t quite know what you mean, _Uncle,_ ” Tonks says challengingly and offers a fake smile. “But if you must know—”

“I think it is high time the English trifles are brought out,” Andromeda interjects mildly and yet, there is a line of steel in her tone that dares anyone to contradict her. “We wouldn’t want them to go to waste. Not after all the work, Cissy has put into them.”

“Very well.” Lucius nods regally as though he’s not just a mere guest.

Hermione feels a rare stirring of pity and disdain for the elder Malfoy. The humbling experience in Azkaban must have been a bitter pill to swallow. The man is clearly hiding under veneers of civility, clinging onto his familiar role as Head of House as a weak attempt to ignore his blatant change in station from one of the most respected Purebloods in Wizarding Britain, to someone who’d been convicted and thrown into Azkaban with nothing to his name.

Still, it doesn't absolve the man of his many sins. So, she turns away.

The trifles are brought out with a quick flick of Andromeda’s wand and Hermione gapes as the sweet tooth within her itches to sink her teeth into that heaping pile of whipped cream and sherry-dipped sponge cake. The dessert is utterly decadent with its bright red berries and snow-white cream in their crystal glasses. When she does take a bite, and then two more, Hermione makes sure to convey a series of praise for it. 

Narcissa practically glows.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Draco murmurs at her side.

“What?” she whispers back.

“Make her happy,” he answers, leaning closer so that their heads are mere millimetres away, his mouth at her ear. The small puffs of breath against the delicate shell have her trembling in her seat. “You don’t have to lie.”

She turns to him and frowns. “I didn’t. I meant every word.” She chances a glance at Narcissa who is blushing gracefully with the various compliments bestowed on her from the others for her culinary efforts. “Besides, I like your mother.”

She doesn’t miss the way Draco pauses, his brows furrowing for the barest of seconds, as though she’s a puzzle he can’t solve. “I see.”

“Of course,” she says loftily and unwilling to miss a chance to poke at him, she continues teasingly, “What, did you think I was being nice to her _for you_?”

Draco snorts and shoots her an incredulous look. “You’re lost the plot, Granger. Eat your bloody trifle.”

“You did, didn’t you?” She tilts her head.

He scoffs and turns back to his plate.

That, in Draco-speak, is a resounding _yes_. She fights back the urge to grin and continues scooping her dessert with the antique sterling silver spoon in her hand. However, upon feeling the heavy burden of someone looking at her, she darts her eyes up. 

Lucius Malfoy’s cool stare is unflinching in its intensity. His grey eyes are narrowed and there is no mistaking the disapproval in his features. His gaze slowly flits from her face to his son, and back to her again. She’s never been thick, hence, she gets the implied insinuation.

She remembers the feeling of inferiority the man has wrought from her before no less than five years ago. Since then, she’s resolved to never allow _anyone_ to have the power to make her feel like she doesn’t belong. She’s Hermione Granger and like the mantra she’s repeated earlier before dinner, she won’t back down.

Lifting her chin, she meets his stare evenly, refusing to budge an inch. 

Lucius Malfoy, the wizard who once held the ear of Minister Cornelius Fudge, the man who was once a loyal follower of Voldemort in both Wizarding Wars, who’d slipped Tom Riddle’s Horcrux diary into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron, the wizard who’d faced them in the Battle in the Department of Mysteries with Bellatrix Lestrange, clenches his jaw and looks away.

Hermione feels like laughing as the magnificent sensation of triumph washes over every part of her being.

Victory, no matter how small, is indeed sweet.

* * * * *

The rest of the meal comes and goes and everyone congregates to the sitting room where the Yule log burns merrily in the fireplace. The adults, with the exception of Lucius—who is seated in front of the fire, staring broodily into the flames while nursing a glass of wine—are clustered together, discussing a number of topics that jump from one to another. Draco is thumbing through some wizarding novel that Andromeda has recommended, whereas Hermione finds herself admiring the tree.

Decorated with numerous baubles and trimmings, she tries to recall Narcissa’s words on the decorations used and the things they symbolize. From the string of cranberries and acorns covered with glitter, along with the shimmering six-spoked snowflakes representing the Witch’s runes, she’s drinking it all in like her first night at Hogwarts with the floating candles in the Great Hall.

After excusing herself to use the washroom, she drifts past the rooms, taking in the garlands of evergreen hung around and the prevalent Wizarding aspects that are so different from the Weasleys. It just reminds her that while Andromeda has been disowned for following the supposedly unfashionable trend of marrying a Muggleborn, she’s still every inch a Pureblood.

Stopping in the corner of the hallway, she attempts to take a closer look at a moving portrait in one of the rooms when Draco slinks to her side.

“What are you doing here?”

She shrugs, stepping into the dim-lit room, which she now recognises as a library of sorts from the floor-to-ceiling shelves. The room also contains a pair of cream coloured wingback chairs with quilted cushions that look terribly cosy. A chess set is laid out on an antique oak side table with numerous delicate floral carvings done into its edges, the small ivory pieces are arranged for a game should anyone want to play. It is a room where Hermione can see herself spending _days_ in.

“Exploring.”

At the inquiring noise given, Hermione continues off-handedly, “Wizarding homes are so different. Seeing magic alive in every area…” She trails off, fingers tracing the spines of old weathered books she’s never seen before. Unlike the dreary and occasional malevolent tomes in Grimmauld Place because of her heritage, the Tonks’ cottage has books of a more educational nature and the swot that lives and breathes within her aches to bring them all home.

Draco makes a noncommittal sound as he follows her from one shelf to another.

“Shouldn’t you be with your parents?” Hermione asks over her shoulder once they’re back at the doorway. “Your mum misses you.”

Abruptly, he stops and steps closer to face her. His almost-silver hair falls into his eyes and the look in them sends the atmosphere in the room into startling degrees. Her breathing grows shorter, as though her dress is too tight and she ought to relieve the pressure by unzipping it in front of him.

“What are you doing?” she asks shakily.

“Continuing your education,” he answers insouciantly. “Looks like my mother forgot one more thing in her tutoring.”

“What?”

“That.” Draco jerks his chin up and she follows his gaze.

Upon catching sight of the innocent sprig hanging on the top of the doorframe, her cheeks colour brilliantly. Heat sizzles up her spine and her mouth gapes. Surely he cannot be serious, her mind weakly protests. Hermione is entirely aware she will never be a Seer, considering her disdain and disbelief at the mystic arts and her lacking the Sight, but… with Draco’s half-lidded gaze on her and the infamous plant with its white berries, she fully knows where this is going.

Try as she might, Hermione no longer wants to fight whatever this is. 

This, referring to the growing attraction between them. This, referring to the way her heart speeds up the moment she sees him. This, referring to the way she wants him to sweep her up in his arms so that their lips will meet.

Anticipation pumps through her veins and her palms grow clammy as she meets his gaze evenly.

Draco’s mouth curves as he angles his body towards her. Now that she’s under the full focus of his attention, Hermione squirms and shifts on her feet. With everyone else in the sitting room, they are all alone in their small dark corner in the world. The possibilities of that mere fact race through her mind at a dizzying speed.

“Oh?” she says, tilting her head.

“The mistletoe,” he starts in a tone so soft that only Hermione can hear it, “was used by Celtic Druids in ceremonies as the plant was believed to have powers that can cure illnesses and predict the future.” If she closes her eyes, it’s as though they’re in their own bubble, comprising Draco’s hypnotic voice and his heady scent of sandalwood and musk, where the latter is something she longs to bury her face into his neck just to inhale _more_ of it.

He continues, adopting a formal, lecturing tone that has her inhaling sharply before squeezing her thighs together, “However, there are many other variations of the myth, such as the Romans reconciling with their enemies under the plant because it represented peace. The Greeks, on the other hand, used mistletoe in marriage ceremonies for it symbolizes fertility. Did you know that, Granger?”

She does. Kissing under the mistletoe is hardly an obscure tradition. And yet, Hermione finds herself shaking her head, carrying on the charade.

“But more recently, in the Victorian era, men were allowed to get a kiss from any woman found standing under the mistletoe. Should any lady refuse, it would be considered bad luck and she’d be deemed an old maid. But of course, that doesn’t matter now.”

Unbidden—entirely of its own volition, her tongue darts out to wet her dry lips. She doesn’t miss the way Draco’s gaze drops to her mouth or how his eyes darken.

Her heart skips a beat at the flash of _want_ in those stormy depths. She wants him too.

“Granger.” Draco’s voice is strangled and hoarse; it is a warning and a plea all at once.

“Draco,” she breathes out, inching closer to his. They are so close that she can feel the heat emanating from him. Any closer, they’ll be pressed flush against each other.

“Tell me no,” he rasps out, but the contrary way his hands are planted on her hips says otherwise.

At what point has his fingers made their way on her, Hermione doesn't know. But what she is aware of is that the feel of his hands _scorches_ her very soul. Beneath the layers of her dress, she feels _him_ , and Hermione suspects that if she walks away and checks, the shape of his hands will be imprinted on her bare skin. Like a mark. She rather likes the idea of that, no matter how primitive it sounds.

Drugged on the very feel of magic in the air, she shakes and tilts her head up. It’s a blatant invitation to what they both want.

She wonders if Draco can tell how much she wants, no, _needs_ this.

He lets out a harsh groan and dips his head.

This time, it’s her hands on his chest, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. The fabric is soft to the touch, but that doesn’t matter to her. She wants to touch him. She wants to know if his skin is as smooth as his dress robes.

Draco’s eyes are hooded and their pupils were blown wide. 

Desire is a heady aphrodisiac in the air and Hermione is drunk on it.

His mouth parts.

She exhales slowly, her breath fanning over his cheeks and he shudders visibly.

“Granger,” he rumbles, the grip on her hips tighten and she yearns for him to slide them higher north. She wonders if his hands can span the circumference of her waist. “You’re fucking with my head.”

Mutely, she shakes her head and leans forward, balancing herself on her toes as her lips brush against his jaw.

He makes a sound. Something similar to that of a snake hissing and just as she thinks it’s utterly suitable for the Sorting Hat to place him in Slytherin, he moves in for the kill. Ducking his head further, their lips are a hairbreadth away from each other and Hermione closes her eyes and pushes forward and—

Soft. 

Like the wings of a dove. 

Warm. 

Like the feel of sunshine on her bare skin during summer.

Draco’s mouth touches hers for a fraction of a second and she’s screaming and cheering and shouting— _yes, yes, yes_ —until she realises the Slytherin has jerked away.

She blinks slowly, her dazed mind struggling to come to terms with everything—the kiss, the touches but more importantly, why has he moved away? Because whatever that was is hardly considered a kiss. It’s not even a measly peck in her opinion.

And she gets her answer. 

“Draco? Hermione? Where are you?”

On some unsaid mutual agreement, Draco clears his throat and steps back, while Hermione hastily smooths the skirts of her dress and mutters a cooling charm. She peeks up at him, noting the pink stain on his alabaster cheeks has spread to his neck and he looks as far as possible from the abrasive arrogant boy he’s always portrayed to be.

“There you both are,” Andromeda sighs as she steps out of the turn that leads from the sitting room. “Oh the library, I should’ve known.” The older witch shoots Hermione a fond knowing smile. “Come on, your mother is looking for you,” she directs to Draco, who responds with a curt nod.

As Andromeda leads them back, a small part of her is already wondering if he’s regretting this. The thought of that almost sends Hermione to her knees. She certainly cannot bear that. Predictably, the overactive section of her mind begins churning, producing gutting scenarios of being rejected, of being laughed at for thinking she has a chance with him, a Malfoy, who is once considered near Wizarding royalty. It results in her wanting to excuse herself back to Grimmauld Place to hide and prepare for the inevitable let down.

Before she can do so, Draco throws a look over his shoulder. 

Immediately, the storm that is her mind quietens.

The look is fleeting but she notes the way he searches her face for something. For what, she doesn’t know but acting on instinct, she reaches out and lets her fingers brush against his.

A line of tension she hasn’t noticed fades from his jawline and his harsh countenance diffuses into something gentler. Similarly to their encounter at the dinner table, his fingers seek hers out and once again, they’re tangled together.

She exhales slowly.

When they’re approaching the sitting room where everyone else is, their hands are released and they go back to their respective spots, he, with his family, and her, with Remus. Tonks is telling a humorous anecdote about a mishap during one of her missions when Hermione glances towards Draco. 

Her gut swoops when she realises his gaze is already on her.

That night, she dreams of silver blond hair clutched between her fingers, large hands spanning the width of her waist and arctic grey eyes turning a shade so dark that it leaves her breathless. When she wakes, her heart is racing in her chest, beads of sweat dot her hairline and warmth, hot and heady, pools low in her gut, causing her thighs to clench together in _need._

And that’s when Hermione knows she is in trouble.

* * * * *

Tonks is talking, but for the life of her, Hermione can’t figure out what she’s saying.

“—it’s not like it’s going to be some ghoulish-looking thing. It’s going to be a baby! But Remus is just concerned about the werewolf aspect, that he’s not thinking clearly!”

“I understand your frustration, dear, but he has been afflicted with the gene for more than half of his life. The man does have reason to be wary—”

“Molly, please!” Tonks whines. “Hermione, back me up here!”

Snapping up, she whirls around to face a beseeching-looking Tonks and an aggravated Molly. “W-what?” she stammers and Molly shoots her a pointed look before un-subtly jerking her head to Tonks’ belly. “Oh, uh, I mean, I guess, maybe you can try explaining to him what you feel?”

Tonks rolls her eyes. “Merlin’s tits, Hermione!” she groans much to Molly’s indignant squawk at her language. “I already tried that. Weren’t you listening? What’re you looking at, anyway?”

“Nothing!” Hermione snaps hurriedly, praying to Morgana and Circe that she isn’t blushing and that no one has noticed her eyes straying to the opposite end of the dining room where Draco is seated. “I’m sorry, I was just...um, thinking about the Horcruxes!”

“Really?” Tonks is eyeing her closely and huffs. “Right when I’m complaining?”

Molly shakes her head and bustles off. “Tonks, honestly, it’ll be fine. Werewolf gene or not, that little one will be a precious bundle of joy. Now, I’ll be off.” The Weasley matriarch sniffs and gives Hermione a warm smile. “It’s lovely to see you, dear. Yule just wasn’t the same without you. Perhaps we’ll see you there next year?”

Hermione nods and smiles, holding on to another knitted jumper gratefully. “Of course. Send my love to Arthur and the rest!”

When Molly finally leaves, Tonks blows out a big gust of air and drums her fingers impatiently on the table. “You’re a shite liar, Hermione.” The pink-haired witch raises a brow challengingly. “I _know_ the topic of Horcruxes has not even been brought up once in your mind these past few days.”

Hermione makes a face. She’s about to speak up and defend when a shadow looms over her. A pale hand comes into her line of vision and whatever retort she has is stuck in her throat and promptly dies. 

Merlin, no. Not him. Not _now_.

“Well, I’m not that surprised to hear that. I’ve always said that Granger is a shite liar.”

“So are you,” Tonks snaps goodnaturedly at her cousin. “You may be in that snake pit and Morgana knows what sort of debauchery goes on there—”

“Fuck off, Hufflepoof.”

Tonks continues as if she hasn’t been interrupted and insulted. “—but I’ve been around your parents way too much in the past months. And compared to them, you’re a crappy liar too!” 

Draco snorts. “And what, insulting my father and cosying up to my mum makes you an expert on all things Slytherin?”

“Yes!”

“And here I thought you’re an accomplished Auror, capable of making proper deductions. I guess I’m wrong.”

“You horrid little viper—”

“Thank you.”

“That’s not even a compliment!”

Hermione isn’t even paying attention to the quarrel between both cousins. Not when she’s trying her very best not to look at the blond. Or to ignore the way the sleeve of his black jumper brushes against her forearm. Or analyse his choice of choosing to sit at her side when there are other vacant seats around the table.

Whatever it is, Hermione is too aware of him.

The Mistletoe Incident—as she’s calling it—has awakened a few things in her. 

One, she has finally accepted the attraction she feels towards her former childhood bully, and with that comes the territory of being overly-conscious of his whereabouts, of his mannerisms and his habits. Every time he’s around, her body buzzes in that anticipatory manner as her gut churns, while her hands itch to touch him. Humiliatingly, more than once, she catches herself falling into that temptation, which results in her physically burying her hands into her pockets whenever Draco is around.

Secondly, she suspects she’s caught an illness. Or she’s been hexed. Ever since Yule, she’s jumpy—restless and easily irritable, and for the life of her, Hermione can’t figure out why. Other than the possibility Draco is toying around with her, she can’t understand why he hasn’t tried to kiss her again.

Not once. 

Not once since Yule, which was _three days ago._

It isn’t as though they didn’t have the opportunity to do so. In Grimmauld Place where adult supervision is close to none, Draco hasn’t shown any inclination that he wishes to re-enact what happened at his aunt’s home. Instead of cornering her as she’d internally hoped, he’d gone about his day as though nothing has happened. As per their usual daily routine, they’d simply bantered and argued, and poured over dusty old tomes till the early hours of the morning.

With her penchant for overthinking and having an overactive imagination, Hermione’s going mad.

Thumbing at the hardcover edge of her book, she wonders again if she’s made everything up. Has she imagined the Mistletoe Incident? Is her subconscious merely imparting and exposing a deep-seated desire for Draco Malfoy to kiss her under some mistletoe during Yule? She screws up her face. The romanticism of that ought to kill her. Thinking back to the various times Draco has been completely indifferent towards her, she’s almost convinced the whole thing to be a nightmarish dream. 

Until the appearance of a tiny smirk from her peripheral catches her attention.

She turns, narrowing her eyes, only to see the argument between both cousins has escalated from the way sparks are shooting from the Metamorphmagus’ wand.

Hermione frowns and swings her gaze back to her book and groans inwardly. Has she imagined that smirk too?

Merlin, she’s losing her mind. Over Draco Malfoy, no less!

A movement beside her catches her attention. Under her lashes, (she has to be discreet this time!) she sneaks a glance and unwittingly, her jaw drops. She’s never thought it possible, but with Draco rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, showing off the expanse of his forearms, her mouth goes dry and her stomach does a flip or two. She blinks, gawking.

Her gaze trails up to see the familiar curve of his mouth widen slowly.

The brief memory of her lips on his flashes through her mind. Acutely, Hermione can feel her cheeks _burn_ and it doesn’t help when she sees the knowing gleam in those grey eyes. If she focuses, she thinks she can still feel the barest hint of friction where they’d kissed.

“Is there something I can help you with, Granger?” Draco drawls lazily as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. 

Her throat convulses and her mouth works uselessly. 

_“No!”_ she sputters and jumps to her feet. Ignoring Tonks’ startled look, she clenches her hand around her wand and licks her dry lips as Draco meets her gaze with a hint of a grin on his stupid git face. “I-just...I— Excuse me!” she snaps and hurriedly scuttles out of the room.

Hermione can now swear on her wand that the prat is simply toying with her. No doubt he’s basking in the knowledge that it’s her turn to be all _gooey_ over him like the countless girls back in school. She isn’t an idiot. She’s always known that Draco Malfoy is attractive, but the snobbish attitude and him being an overall arsehole kills any budding attraction she might have.

But now?

Godric help her, she’s as bad as Pansy ‘Pugnose’ Parkinson and all of her screeching and cooing.

As they’re wont to do, her fingers tug at her hair as she hastily rushes down the hallway to seek refuge in her room. She’s decided that’s her plan for the foreseeable future until the Floo sounds and Harry’s bespectacled self makes an appearance. 

“Hermione!”

“Harry!” she greets, ever thankful for the distraction that is her best friend. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off—”

“Yes, yes, but things have been...strained,” he answers sheepishly. “Yule was a nightmare. How was yours?”

She pauses, recalling the heady intoxicating scent of _him_ and how he’d held her in their little corner and how he’d looked at her. “It was… fine,” she says, feigning nonchalance and crosses her arms. “Nothing much happened.”

Harry narrows those piercing green eyes and belatedly, she starts to wonder if she’s that terrible a liar like everyone claims she is. Thankfully, her best friend doesn’t press and he shrugs. “Alright,” he starts haltingly, tilting his head. “If you say so—”

“I do say so!” Hermione interrupts shrilly. 

The Boy-Who-Lived gives her another measuring glance and she flushes and avoids his scrutiny. “‘Mione, I just wanted to ask if you’ll like to come with me. That is if you’re bored of Grimmauld Place and going crazy all cooped up here.”

“It’s not boring,” she says automatically. And yet, she pauses, thinking back to Draco’s smirk and the way he’s been behaving, driving her one step closer to insanity. At this rate, she’ll be as mad as any inmate in Azkaban. “You know what? Let’s go. I could do with some fresh air.”

“Go? Where are you going?”

She pivots on her heel as Draco approaches them sullenly and suspiciously. Gone is his teasing manner and the numerous smirks he’d graced her with. Hair falling into his eyes, hands in his pockets and dressed in black from head to toe, he reminds her of an avenging fallen angel, whose sole intent is to collect a debt long due.

Somehow, Hermione feels trapped. Like she’s a naughty child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Out,” Harry says and adjusts his coat before pushing up his glasses. 

“Now?” Draco questions dryly and spares a glance to the window. “It’s late, Potter.”

“Malfoy, it’s only _nine._ ” Harry raises his brows. “Besides, it’s only for a little while. Hermione’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

“Granger, you shouldn’t,” the Slytherin says flatly, apparently deciding it’s best to approach her instead of Harry, who’s known for jumping into danger without sparing a thought for his well-being. “I know you’re capable and all of that barmy rot, but it’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says shortly, summoning her winter coat and boots with a wordless _Accio_. Her beanie and gloves soon follow. “Don’t wait up.”

Draco frowns, mouth set into an unhappy twist as he regards them silently. She’s stuffed the worn beanie over her head when he leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “Be careful,” he says evenly.

With the mood she’s in, Hermione would have muttered a grudging remark regarding his sudden concern about her welfare and if he actually means it. But the tight lines around his eyes, coupled with the way he’s clenching his jaw, and the stiffness of his posture against the wall stills her tongue.

She starts to realise that he is genuinely concerned.

Naturally, her shoulders sag and she ignores Harry who is watching them like one might watch a tennis match. She offers a smile that she hopes comes across as reassuring and resists the force compelling her to hug him. “I always am,” she murmurs softly.

Draco’s eyes soften but it doesn’t ease the hard lines of tension on his jaw.

She turns away and reaches out for Harry who’s snorting under his breath. 

“What?” she demands. 

Harry gives her a sardonic look. “It’s not him, huh?”

“Oh, shut up.” She scowls and they disapparate.

* * * * *

Hermione decides she might beat Harry to be the one to slay Voldemort.

Pain radiates through her every nerve and she simply wants to die. At this point, she wishes someone would cut her leg off. That’s where the source of her agony is. The burn at her calf is throbbing, sending fiery waves of torment down her veins. Dimly, she wonders if this is what the _Cruciatus_ curse is like. Everything is spinning and all she can hear are muted shouts and the occasional sentence that does make sense and are those fairy lights above her?

“Hermione! Stay with me! Hang on!”

She tries to speak but what spills from her throat is a garbled mess of indecipherable vowels and whimpers.

“‘Mione! Fuck! Don’t close your eyes!”

She’s flying. She’s floating. Or maybe, she’s sinking. She can’t tell.

Squinting, she can see the blurry blob that must be Harry for who else has hair that looks like a nest? She makes another attempt to speak but the words wouldn’t come. Reaching out, she tries to wag her hand in his face to catch his attention but the world spins and all she sees is a flash of silver. 

“—the fuck did you do, Potter—”

“—accident! It’s that damned snake!”

Something cold is pressing against her forehead and she bats a hand at it. 

“Granger? Can you hear me?”

Draco? She grimaces and opens her mouth because she so wants to know why he’s there at Godric’s Hollow. Isn’t he on house arrest back at Grimmauld Place? Her jaw works, and she’s earnestly trying to shout at him to go back before the Order finds out. 

“—bloody idiot! Of course, he’ll be waiting! It’s so fucking obvious a place you’ll go and you did!”

“—damned snake hid in a corpse...Bathilda Bagshot….how was I to know—”

“—should have fucking did, you bleeding fucktard! How imbecilic could you get?”

The comforting scent of sandalwood washes over her and somehow, she knows she’s being lifted upright. Hermione sighs and the feel of soft cotton against her cheek is heavenly. It almost makes her forget the hell she’s briefly visited at the fangs of a serpent.

“Granger?”

She squeezes her eyes tight and buries her face further into that familiar warmth. It’s somewhere she never wishes to leave. She wants to be there forever.

“Granger, come on. Look at me, please. _Hermione._ ”

Her head lolls at that and through fluttering lashes because the world is too damn fucking bright for her pupils, she squints. “Draco?”

A whoosh of air escapes and beneath her face, something heaves. Belatedly, Hermione realises she’s being cradled in Draco Malfoy’s arms. She squirms weakly because this is not the path she’s wanted to take to end up here—she’s bitten by a snake for Merlin’s sake—but his arms tighten around her.

“Don’t move,” he warns in a low voice. 

She nods dumbly. She has zero intention of leaving his embrace.

Forcing her eyes open and immediately wincing, she’s greeted with the sight of Draco peering down anxiously at her. His face is contorted, his jaw is clenched tightly and Hermione thinks she can practically hear him grinding on his molars. The need to smooth the tired strained lines on his face fills her, but Hermione can’t seem to summon the strength or the will to move her limbs.

“Relax, Snape’s coming. You’re safe.” Draco adjusts his grip on her. 

She glances around, the fiery ache in her leg is gone and all she knows is that she’s going numb. Her brain feels all fuzzy like there’s cotton stuffed through her ears and seeing Harry on his knees, head in the fireplace that remarkably looks like the one at Grimmauld, she struggles to articulate her concern for her best friend.

“H-Harry’s good?”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course, he’s fine. He’s the Boy-Who-Fucking-Lived.”

She stops moving and slowly realising her breathing is getting shallower by the minute, Hermione knows she’s approaching Death’s door. Despite that, Hermione is fixated on the fact Draco has finally used her name.

“Draco?” she starts faintly. 

The blond glares down at her. “Shut up and reserve your strength.” 

“I-I like the way you say my name,” she slurs as the edges of her vision get darker.

Draco gazes down at her, his expression is a mix of horror and panic.

Typically of her, she closes her eyes and falls into peaceful oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies, here’s another update! Thank you for being so patient and supportive and it’s only been 7 chapters and i’m fucking blown away by the amount of support this has been given? Bloody hell! Thank you guys for being the best! I truly appreciate the love you’ve shown from the bottom of my heart! 
> 
> As always, do share with me your thoughts because i covet them and save them all in my email inbox haha. I know this is a cliffhanger but it's not _that_ bad lmao. Again, thank you so much for reading and I’ll see you in the next chapter! 
> 
> P.S. this is unedited with the exception of a quick readthrough. I'll get to it asap when I have time! :")
> 
> P.S.S I hope Hermione isn't OOC in this chapter because that's like one of my worst fears?? which isn't doing her justice?? idk goddd, anyway, do let me know!!


End file.
